Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Ya excited yet, L.T.?” Soap asked, a cheeky grin spread wide across his face while he elbowed the crossed armed man in the side. He’d been pestering Ghost since the moment they made it to the helipad; constantly asking if he was “ready” or “excited”.

“Quit it, Johnny.” Ghost grunted, annoyance evident in his tone. Soap laughed a little before tilting his head to the side, a pout setting across his features. Ghost would almost believe he was genuinely sad if it wasn't for the teasing glint still in Soap's eyes betraying his A-plus performance.

"C'mon, L.T.," he drawled, "you ain't just a little curious on wha' our new transfers gon’ look like?"

Ghost didn't answer at first, instead opting just to give Soap a side eye. He'd been hearing everyone gossip about the soldier from KorTac—mostly, his recruits being the ones chirping about—from the moment Price informed everyone someone new was being transferred to the 141.

Though he’d been feigning a front of disinterest, admittedly, the talk had him a bit curious, which was the only reason he agreed to come with Soap today. But there was no way he'd let Johnny know that.

“No.” He responded and set his eyes back to the front; a clear indicator that he was done with the conversation. But, like always, Soap didn't know when not to push his luck. A truly nasty habit.

“C’mon, from wha I’ve heard everyones been sayin’ he’s 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 than you. You can't tell me you ain't just a bit curious to see if that's true.”

Ghost stayed silent, sticking to his decision to no longer converse about the new transfer.

Soap continued on, completely unbothered by Ghost's silence; having gotten used to it by now.

Somewhere along the way time blurred together and Ghost had tuned out the Scotsman’s ranting entirely, instead wondering just what was taking so long for the chopper to arrive. They'd been waiting for a solid ten minutes now. Ghost glanced down at his watch; it was three minutes past the aircrafts scheduled arrival. He bit back an annoyed sigh as his eyebrow twitched. He wasn't going to wait all day for some newbie. He'd meet the guy eventually—the base wasn't 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 big, after all. He was about to tell Soap just that when he was ripped back to the present by one simple sentence.

“I’ve even heard he’s stronger than you, from the way everyone's talkin’, I can't help but think it’s true. Bet tha's why you don’ wanna talk bout' Im'.”

That admittedly did get his attention. He’d been hearing a lot about the transfer—this not even being the first time he’d been compared in strength to the guy, considering most of his recruits' chatter had only been debates on if the soldier could defeat him.

Some said he could, others said there was no way. Hell, Ghost was pretty certain there had been bets placed—which he had no doubt Soap was in on and could care less about—but having heard Soap say he thought the transfer could beat 𝘩𝘪𝘮 (joke or not) made something deep inside him unsettled, like the uncertainty you feel when you're walking in the pitch black of night and are left wondering just what is laying awake out there.

It was just a simple comment, a tactic Soap’s decided to use to get under his skin like any other day, but for some reason it set him off more than it usually did.

At the sudden lack of constant rambling and a Scottish accent Ghost glanced towards Soap, who was looking at him expectantly; a clear sign Soap wouldn’t be letting him not respond to that particular comment.

𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, the lieutenant thought with a silent sigh.

“You don’t say?”

Soap grinned. “I knew that’d get your attention, L.T.,” he teased.

The Scotsman opened his mouth, fully prepared to continue on his rants or maybe start teasing the lieutenant, but lucky for Ghost before Soap could start, the sounds of an aircraft's engines in the distance began to fill the very brief silence surrounding the landing pad, instantly drawing Soap's attention away from him.

The first thing Ghost noticed the moment their new arrival exited the chopper was the sniper hood. It caught him off guard for a moment; not used to looking at another mask-wearer on base. Let alone a hooded mask-wearer.

Then, a split second later, he realized Soap was right—he 𝘸𝘢𝘴 tall. Lean, not too muscular under all that tac-clothing, which made sense when you looked (or more accurately looked 𝘶𝘱) at the man. He had to have had a good few inches on Ghost 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺. However, the way he walked was... weird, to say the least. He had a slight hunch with each step, head tilted down and shoulders drawn forward, almost like he was trying to shrink himself—a giant hyperaware of the space he took up. It was ridiculous. Nothing like how a soldier should represent themselves, especially not when trying to remain unnoticed. He should know carrying himself like that would only draw more attention rather than takeaway. Hell, if he wanted people to not pay attention, he should walk at full height and glare at anyone who dared to stare for too long. It's what always worked for Ghost when he got annoyed by the constant staring from his rookies. It even brought him a little joy on occasion from how quickly they'd shy away (some even bolting out of the room in fear of what he could do to them).

Quite frankly, he reminded Ghost of a stray dog being cornered on the streets, eyes shifting everywhere, unsure of its surroundings, and so visibly wired that it was ready to lash out at anything, whether it was a hand wanting to provide shelter and warmth or a dangerous predator. It made him feel like 𝘩𝘦 should be on the lookout for something as well. As if he were the one walking into uncharted territory, and at any minute someone could get the jump on him and stab him.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨? a small voice in Ghost's mind spoke up, a taunting thing that only made him more agitated.

Soap, completely unaware of Ghost's sudden shift in attitude, stood there next to Ghost excitedly. He clicked his tongue and squinted in the bright sunlight, barely making out the tall figure walking towards them. That had to be König, the new transfer and—"Holy shite," he whispered. "Now tha’s somethin' ya don’t see everyday. Wha' are they feedin’ this guy?”

Though he wouldn't say it out loud, Ghost agreed with that reaction. The guy was 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭. Taller than he’d like to admit. Especially as he stood before them like a god damn bloody tower.

For the first time since arriving the guy, 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨, finally looked in his direction, amber eyes meeting his own.

Ghost waited for the recognition or even an introduction. For 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. Really anything at all, but it never came.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘺?

Ghost was quick to move on from that though; instead opting to pick apart every surface detail he could see. He took in the creases of black grease paint under the Austrian's eyes, the way his legs were tense (like he was resisting the urge to move or run) and noted how he was decked up in tactical gear as if he was about to fly out.

Although, upon further inspection, Ghost noticed König’s gear wasn't the usual gear you'd see on a soldier. Sure, he had his own variants of a vest, boots, gloves and dark tac clothing along with a standard sidearm, but that's not what caught Ghost's attention.

What stood out was that König wore a helmet that seemed to resemble a bicycle helmet, his forearm guards also resembled those of ski guards, and, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦, his helmet seemed to be composed of millions of things a normal millitary standard helmet would have—an integrated communication system, night vision capabilities in the form of a small flashlight bulb velcroed to the top of his helmet making him slightly resmble a anglerfish, and reinforced materials for enhanced durability—but it was all bolted or bloody 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 on.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬.

Now, that certainly wasn't what Ghost’d been expecting from their anticipated newcomer. He expected one of two things: fear at the mere sight of him or (if this guy was like the rumors—which so far he certainly 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵) a defensive, maybe even challenging glare.The hood paired with his height, and all the gossip surrounding the man gave the guy quite a daunting, imagitive image after all.

Then, that voice in his head popped up again. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦.

As soon as the thought came, the energy around them shifted, like a coin had been flipped. Everything about the taller man was starting to rub Ghost the wrong way. All the way from his posture to his stupidly ridiculous height—it was all unatural. A sensation that weaved its way into his very bone structure and made a nest there so inherent and abject that he just couldn’t ignore it; there was something about this soldier that was just 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨.

“Another masked man, aye? It seems you ave' some competition, L.T.,” Soap teased, cutting through the tense atmosphere as if it didn't exist. Ghost didn't flinch per'se, but he had tensed. He'd honestly forgotten the Scotsman was still there; too ingroused with studying the man in front of him and trying to pick a part any detail he could get to use to put together just who this man was, and what he was about.

"Tha’ certainly a gift of height you’ve got there, big guy," Soap continued with a grin, the earlier shock of just how tall the man was being long forgotten.

König couldn’t help the way his neck tensed at the man's words. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸. It’s something he hated about himself; the "gift" of height being his biggest curse. It was always the first thing people commented on—the thing they noticed above all else.

He’s never been particularly fond of being noticed by others, but with his height there's never a moment someone doesn’t pick him out from the crowd.

Ghost watched the way König grew more tense with that statement. 𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵, he noted, then cataloged that away for later inspection among a list of other things.

"Guess we finally found someone who gives you a runnin' for your money, huh?" Soap continued and elbowed Ghost. König, for the first time since arriving, fully focused on the men in front of him.

The man who spoke had an accent that König couldn't quite place, but certainly somewhat British. He was (unsurprisingly) shorter than him with some stubble across his jaw and an unmistakable mohawk. He held a broader build with arms corded with thick muscle, a form built by discipline. His voice was rather cheerful, almost too optimistic for someone who had faint scars dotted down his arms.

The man's eyes stared at his hood, as though he was trying to unveil his face, eyes roaming over the few features his hood allowed to be shown through the fabric. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s stared at his hood, no doubt trying to piece together a picture of what his face might look like underneath. He kept preparing himself for when the other was going to ask him about the hood—because they always do—but he never did.

𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦.

The man who he poked fun at was tall, but not taller than König. He appeared to be quite broad—certainly larger than the other man—and muscular under his clothing, powerfully built like a tank with broad shoulders and a thick, muscular neck that highlighted his years of no doubt vigorous training. His arms were heavily muscled, with pronounced biceps and triceps that were shown through his dark tactical gear. His chest was broad and well-defined, giving him a powerful upper body. Hell, even his legs were impressive, with strong, muscular thighs and calves that could support quick, powerful movements. At first glance, the only thing that crossed König's mind was to run. It was as though he was face-to-face with a phantom of some kind. For some strange reason, he couldn’t help but feel like he'd seen him somewhere before.

Furthermore, the mans eyes were a pale, husky blue, completely devoid of light, encased deeply within dark hollows and framed by the craters of his skull balaclava. Piercing. Soulless. 𝘜𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨. König felt an odd and uncomfortable sense of exposure under their gaze, something he couldn’t quite place but quickly recognized—he felt small, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵 under this man's intense scrutiny. Like a lone sapling in a vast, empty field, overshadowed by towering mountains, and aware of just how insignificant it was in the grand landscape around it.

“Cut that, Johnny,” the skull-masked man said, “You’re scaring im’.” The man, 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘯𝘺, as the skeleton wearer called him, laughed a little before silently raising his hands in a mock surrender.

"Alright, don' gotta get ya panties in a twist," the Scott mumbled.

König didn't miss the slight eye twitch the masked man made.

“𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨, is it?” the man asked, ignoring his fellow soldier and then continued on, not waiting for a response, “I expect you to know wha' you’re doin'.”

“Now 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 scaring im’, L.T.” The man called Johnny joked again, and it only made him more disturbed. That knowledge felt familiar. That man who was comparable to a reaper, or two, was someone he should know. Or his name, at least. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. He’s not crazy—he’d seen him before. If he wasn’t so, well, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘥, he’d probably find it in him to recall the guy's name.

“This ere' is Ghost,” Johnny continued and tilted his head, turning a cheek towards the man next to him as if he could read König’s thoughts.

𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵? König thought, 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳? 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯—𝘐'𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘰—

That's when it hit him like a freight train going full speed, his eyes widened—he knew who Ghost was. Ghost, the elusive shadow from T.F. 141, one of the most feared men on the battlefield and the most respected. A 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵. How could his mind just blank like that, when the man was right in front of him?

König’s heart picked up in his rib cage, beating so rapidly he was sure it would burst out and splatter all over the two men in front of him, granting him one last moment of embarrassment before death came and swept him away. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if the reaper sent to take his soul was the very skull-masked man standing before him.

When Ghost was on the field you 𝘳𝘢𝘯. It wasn't an option—not when you came across him of all soldiers—because the moment you did, you were already dead. Everyone knew to avoid the man in the skullface. To avoid his eyes. Those eyes, those 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 eyes—

“What makes you believe tha' you're allowed to introduce me like tha', Sergeant?” Ghost asked, forcefully cutting König’s thoughts off. Even though he just met him, he could tell by the tone that the man—𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, was only mock reprimanding the Sergeant.

The latter, however, was completely unbothered by it, and it didn’t take a genius to tell that they must be incredibly close, for a dynamic like such to be even remotely acceptable.

“'M' try’na lighten the mood ere', L.T.,” the Sergeant said with an eye roll and scoff, then turned back to König, “I’m Sergeant John Mactavish, if you want to talk about formalities. But ya can just call me Soap. Come with me, I’ll show you around.”

König nodded, letting out a breath of air he hadn’t realized he was still holding, silently grateful he didn’t have to say anything.

He'd never been very talkative. Even as a child he’d always stuck to his own devices, finding comfort for himself through books, music, rain, and other things that caught his interest. Back then, it had been a choice on his part, a way to escape the cruel reality of which he lived in. Now he was a loner because he figured he kind of 𝘩𝘢𝘥 to be. It was just easier that way.

Safer.

König dared a glance back to the man still standing next to Soap, immediately regretting it when he locked eyes with that cold, unwavering stare; he’s almost certain Ghost hadn’t taken his eyes off him or even blinked since he got off the chopper.

For a moment it seemed like Ghost wanted to say something, maybe disagree with Soap showing König around, like he was worried the Sergeant wouldn’t come back, but he stayed silent.

“Ya comin’, big guy?” Soap asked, drawing König’s attention away from Ghost. At some point when König was staring at the masked man Soap had started walking towards the doors leading inside the base. How König managed to completely miss the Sergeant walking away, he had no idea, but he didn't dwell on it for long—instead deciding to stop wasting the Sergeant's time and follow him.

The lieutenant watched with a heavy stare as the Austrian walked away alongside the Sergeant, Soap already having begun ranting about the base as they walked.

Ghost didn't once look away throughout the entirety of the hooded man's retreat into the base until he was far out of sight. Only then, did he allow his eyes to wander, locking onto a path leading to a certain Captain.

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The room was deafeningly silent from the moment Ghost firmly shut the door behind him, to the moment he sat down in the seat across from Price’s. Neither man spoke a single word to the other, besides from the brief words exchanged when Ghost had knocked and Price had said, “Come in.”

Ghost watched as Price looked over mission documents and soldier reports, not sparing a single glance his way. The older man looked completely unbothered by Ghost's interruption or his unwavering stare. Instead simply continuing to scan over the papers he held.

It stayed that way for a solid five minutes before Price quietly sighed and shuffled the papers he’d been going over together and threw them in a pile to the side. Ghost straightened ever so slightly as he was met with a quirk of a brow followed by, “Something I can help you with, Ghost?”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as he clasped his hands together. “Who is he?”

Price leaned back further in his chair and brought a hand to his fisher's hat, setting it down—revealing short, dark brown cropped hair with the sides and back neatly trimmed, while the top left just a slightly longer length of trim to the hairsyle—on the table before he let out another small sigh. It was clear he already knew that Ghost was there for their newest teammate, but had been silently hoping it was about something else. It slightly irked Ghost how easy it was for Price to predict what he was going to do at times. “He’s a new transfer who was assigned to work ere' from KorTac. He's an insertion specialist tha' goes by the name König.” Price answered.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵.

The lieutenant's jaw tensed, and he breathed in slowly through his nose, the faint smell of cigarette smoke lingering and infiltrating his lungs. He understood that what he was about to request was substantial and might be refused, but he cut straight to the point. "I want his file," he stated firmly, no hint of doubt evident in his tone.

The older man squinted his eyes a bit. “Is there a reason for tha’?”

𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

“I’d like t’ skim it over,” Ghost lied. He couldn't be fully honest with Price. Not about this. “I want to know who I’m going to be workin’ with. Hard to run a team when you know nothin’ about one of your members.”

It was a bullshit excuse, he and Price both knew that. Ghost had never asked for anyone else's file before now. Still, it was a pretty reasonable request, as long as you looked past the fact Ghost didn’t have the rank or the authority to ask for such a thing. But typical rules and regulations tend to get swept under the rug when you run with the 141. Something you learn very quickly. Especially when it came to him—a testament to the unspoken, but mutual high standing he had with Price. Soap liked to say it was because he was Price's favorite. Ghost didn't see what the Scott was talking about.

“You’re certain you need his file?” Price asked after a moment. Ghost knew what the question really was: 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?

“Yes, sir.”

For a painfully long moment, the older man looked as though he was going to argue with Ghost’s request—brows furrowed and calloused fingers tapped against his bearded chin—but then, he let out a small, defeated sigh, and Ghost smirked.

1 - Ghost.

0 - Price

He’d won this round.

“S’ fair, I suppose,” the older man said and gestured to the pile of documents he tossed to the side. Ghost stared at them for a moment, confused as to why Price was gesturing to some random report documents he wasn't authorized to see, but then it hit him. That wasn't a stack of reports but König's file. It was bloody 𝘩𝘶𝘨𝘦.

However, Ghost didn't dwell on that for long, instead opting to quickly reach for it as to not risk Price deciding not to share König's file with him anymore, his eyes immediately falling on the I.D. photo in the corner of the front page, or better yet, the lack of one. There was a picture, but—just like how he'd taken his—König was wearing a mask in it, a simple balaclava, but he donned that damned sniper hood too. As though one wall between himself and the world wasn’t enough, so he needed to add another.

It could be for show. A way for König to intimidate his opponents on the field—not that he needed it with the fucking height he had—but something told Ghost it was deeper than that.

It shouldn't have pissed him off as much as it did to not be able to see the man's face, but he was a selfish bastard. He couldn’t say he hadn't been hoping to get a glimpse of the man behind the hood, to have an advantage over him that the other wouldn't.

It wasn't because he was jealous of the Austrian as Soap would probably put it, no, it was just that Ghost wasn’t used to feeling this 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺—to feeling like he was actually a step under someone.

He was used to having an advantage with the people he met with his rep, height, and build alone, not to mention the intimidation his own mask brought. The uncertainty of what monster hid behind it.

Now, here he was at a 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 in height, and almost evenly matched in build with the same uncertainty of what hid behind the sniper hood. It was just one more thing that rubbed Ghost the wrong way. One more thing that made him feel like he was staring at an incredibly warped mirror.

𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚: 𝘈𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘈𝘭𝘰𝘪𝘴 𝘌𝘣𝘯𝘢𝘳
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙎𝙞𝙜𝙣: 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨
𝙍𝙖𝙘𝙚: 𝘊𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯
𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮: 𝘈𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯
𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝘽𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙝: 𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘵, 𝘈𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢
𝘼𝙜𝙚: 29
𝙃𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 203.2cm
𝙒𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 215 𝘐𝘣𝘴.
𝘽𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙏𝙮𝙥𝙚: 𝘈B-
𝘼𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤
𝙊𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙍𝙖𝙣𝙠: 𝘓𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵 (𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵)
𝙃𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮: 𝘑𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘈𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘍𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 2012. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘬𝘳ä𝘧𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘻𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘳ä𝘧𝘵𝘦. 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘑𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘬𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰. 𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤 𝘪𝘯 𝘈𝘶𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 2019. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤 (𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘱𝘨. 16 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵). 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵.
𝘿𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵, 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘱𝘵. 𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘮 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵.
𝗠𝗮𝗷𝗼𝗿 𝗜𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀: 𝘚𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘮, 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘭𝘣𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯. 𝘓𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦.
𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙮: 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦-𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵, 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘺
𝙈𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘛𝘺𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 "𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤" 𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬". 𝘏𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘺. 𝘈𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 "𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵" 𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦" 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥.

Ghost paused on the last line of the first page, his attention inexplicitly stuck there. He was right.

König was dangerous.

He’d admit it was pretty hard to picture how the man who hunched himself up like a turtle trying to hide away in its shell could be described as savage, but there was a reason König was where he was now—he was no saint. None of them were.

But most men who worked on the battlefield weren’t known to be particularly violent or savage in high-risk situations, either.

Ghost bit the inside of his cheek before inhaling. “Tha’ really true?” he asked, lifting his eyes away from the file to meet Price's. “He’s violent?”

Price nodded. “Tha’s what it says, and tha’s what I’ve been told.”

“He's really the best they could send?” He slid the file back to Price. “A potential liability to any operation we're sent on was the best candidate they had?”

Price sighed and picked up the file, opening a drawer on his desk and dropping it back inside before closing and locking it. “He’s had more than one good word put in for ‘im, Ghost,” Price said. “If he’s a real problem, we’ll send ‘im back. But before we make any premature decisions, we should see ‘im in action. He could come in pretty handy on the field.”

Ghost stayed silent, contemplating how Price could even humor this. That bullshit excuse of, “he could come in pretty handy on the field”, was a bunch of ludicrous. Ghost knew better than anyone that violent men only bred destruction. That when the tides turned they would stop at nothing to gain the power they once had back in their hands. He’s seen plenty of it in his life. He's been that man.

𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳. Now he had no choice but to keep an eye on the newcomer. Like hell he was going to sit by and wait for their new loose cannon to go off and get him killed, or worse, one of 𝘩𝘪𝘴 men.

He wouldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not when he had something more valuable to protect this time.

”Besides,” Price continued, his words cutting through Ghost’s thoughts like a blade through butter, “for the next 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 months he will be working along side you an' this team, Ghost. I’ve got my orders from Laswell, an' there’s not much I can do to reverse this whole ordeal. There’s more going on ere' than you lot think. An' before you even think of asking, it's classified.”

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯.

Ghost exhaled deeply as he nodded, not daring to say anything in fear of finally crossing a line he couldn't come back from. Besides, he had no reason to. He already got what he came for: confirmation, and he definitely wasn't going to try and push his luck, he wasn't Soap after all. The waters had already been disturbed enough tonight with his bold—yet entirely respectful—request.

“Give ‘im a chance Ghost. I don' want anything that could result in a write up taking place ere'.” Price said as Ghost stood up and pushed in his chair. His own subtle way of saying he knew where Ghost was coming from, but he wouldn't stand for any sort of disputation.

That was fine. Anything that may happen will be König's own fault, not his.

“Understood, sir.”

He didn’t have the jurisdiction to question Price or anyone above him—a fact he'd long accepted. He wouldn’t press it further since it clearly wouldn’t get him anywhere. Without evidence nothing would ever be done. He just had to wait for their not-so-little loose cannon to do something. To give him something he could come back to Price with. From what he just read he doubted he’d be waiting long. He probably could get the Austrian gone by the end of their first mission. He just had to make sure that mission didn’t end with any dead bodies from his side.

1 - Price.

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The Sergeant walked before him in a playful fashion, so content it seemed like he was in his own home rather than a military encampment. A place where most longed to be back with family or dwelled on the horrors they've seen and done. It was confusing how he seemed to enjoy being here. Although, maybe to some people, it was a joy. König couldn’t begin to ever understand, and he wouldn’t dare try to.

The base was larger than he’d been expecting it to be as he took in the sight of it all, the dim lighting, casting eerie shadows along the cold, metallic walls and the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor accompanied by the scent of metal and cleaning agents, giving the hallway a sterile and impersonal feel.

He’d barely walked anywhere, only coming from the blacktop to one of the many endless hallways this base had, and he already felt like he was in a maze. He could easily see himself getting lost here. And it didn't help that most of the buildings looked the same to him.

He’d idly wondered what 141’s base was going to be like on the transport ride there. After all, he’d heard that their base was nicer, with better facilities like training equipment and fancy light sensors that switch on and off and dim at certain points of the day. Even had showers that didn't get cold after seven and a half minutes of being used.

He doesn't usually intently listen to conversations that he's not a part of, though according to his teammates—mainly Horangi—T.F. 141 is made up of, “some of the most skilled guys out there”, so it would stand to reason that their base would be good. Only the best for the best, right? Not that he really cared about any of that. He’d just been curious about what the place he’d most likely be staying in for the next couple months would be like. So far everything the rumors talked about were true. But, at the end of the day it was just another base. It’s not like he’d be staying there any longer than needed. He’s just a pawn for them to use, a monster they need to keep in check. He's not allowed to ask questions like when, where, and how long he will be sent off to risk his life? Questioning isn't in his contract—if they say go, he goes. If they say, blow up a military base full of soldiers who just want to go home to their families, he does. He’s not supposed to question things, and he never will.

“So,” Soap began, instantly bringing all of König’s attention back to the present, “you a fan O’ pubs?”

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?

Since the beginning of this little tour of 141’s base König has learned Soap is on the more talkative side. From the way he had been doing a mix between telling König about the actual base and filling him in on random facts like they were gossip—good places to visit, or what some good hobbies were—it's become increasingly obvious the Scott loves to chat. Despite him knowing this information, König hadn’t been expecting Soap to just randomly ask him a question so…strange.

He stared for a moment at Soap, wondering what his motive was before realizing he still hadn't answered the question.

“Oh—ja, I suppose I am.” König finally said.

The Sergeant let out a huff of breath, as though he was amused. “‘Suppose’, eh? I can work with tha’. How’d ye feel bout' going for a wee swallie at a nice little pub in town some time? Got some great food too.”

Oh. König hadn’t known what to expect but he certainly hadn’t been expecting 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. He just met the Sergeant and he was already asking him to go drinking with him? (At least that’s what König assumed a ‘wee swallie’ meant.) It was obvious the Sergeant was friendly—a trait that reminded him a lot of Horangi—but he was sure the other man wouldn’t even care about this conversation in a few hours, probably forget it entirely, so why bother going as far as to invite König (who he’s probably just being nice to out of courtesy) to go get a drink later? Before König could think of something to respond with, or a way to get out without being overly rude, Soap’s eyes flickered over to him.

"Of course ye don't ave' to do anythin’ you ain't comfortable with. Just thought I'd ask. Been dying to go but no one's been able to."

Ah, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 just what he wanted; a drinking partner since all his friends were too busy.

König doesn’t exactly do well in places with lots of people. Just the thought of it made his face retort into a discomforted expression. Luckily, his hood hid the expression his face was wearing. “Ah, sorry. You probably don’ want to go either, huh? After all, you've just arrived and probably want to ge’ settled in,” Soap quickly added with a sheepish chuckle.

Now that would have been the perfect opportunity to get out of going. All König had to do was confirm the Sergeant's guess that he was tired and wanted to settle in. He didn’t have to try and awkwardly come up with some other excuse or explain his dislike of others. But there was just something about the look on the Scotts face that made him hesitate. He never thought a grown man could look so much like a kicked puppy, but here there was one standing right in front of him. Maybe that’s how König found himself saying, “Ja, I’d be happy to go with you, Sergeant.”

The look of pure joy that crossed over Soap's face made König think just maybe he wasn’t going to completely hate his soon to be outing with the Sergeant.

“Pure dead brilliant,” Soap responded. “And don’ call me Sergeant. I told ye to call me Soap.”

“Ah,” König felt his cheeks heat up under the hood. He hadn’t forgotten about the Sergeant's earlier introduction, but he didn’t think the Scott would actually want him to call him by anything other than rank off mission. He’d just figured the suggestion was just that, a suggestion, nothing but a courtesy. “right, sorry.”

They walked in silence for a few blissful minutes longer before Soap spoke up once again, “So your call sign is ‘𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨’, right?”

König nodded.

“Right, is that yer last name, or does it stand for something? Certainly ain't English.”

“Nein, it’s not a last name,” he replied after a second, eyeing the floor so he didn't have to look at the piercing pools of jade that were boring into the side of his head. Seriously, this guy must be the extrovert of all extroverts—with a possible staring problem too.

He briefly considered shutting down the conversation and leaving—where to, he didn’t know—but decided to stay put because the other seemed like a genuine person, soley wanting to get to know König, and he’d rather not leave a bitter taste in Soap’s mouth so soon after meeting him. Making an enemy so quickly would not end well for him. If he could, he'd like to stay as just another soldier and not considered some man who was rude and thought himself so much better than others he couldn't even humor them to talk to them. He nearly cringed at his own thought train—𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘉𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥.

“Right, so it stands for somethin' then?” Soap asked, still looking at him like he was interested in hearing about what König had to say, as he comfortably walked down the halls having full confidence that he knew where he was going, which he probably did.

König studied Soap, unable to shake the momentary fear that the other man was toying with him right now like so many others, maybe trying to find the next thing he could gossip about (he probably was), but there was nothing cruel or teasing in the other man’s eyes (that he could decipher). He just seemed curious.

König slowly nodded his head. He wasn’t too fond of telling others his call signs' meaning. He’d originally gotten the name from how well he could take control over any situation on the battlefield, basically dominating anything and anyone who stood in his way, making them "bow before him" as some of his teammates liked to say. A true king.

His mother had been so proud of him when she'd learned what his call sign represented. So proud that she started calling him her "little könig" despite him being an adult.

His call sign then became an honor and reminder of home while on the battlefield, but after her death it was just a cruel reminder of the few good things he once had before he became the monster he was now. Not to mention once people learned the meaning they instantly became repudiate.

Guess it was better to rip the bandaid off now and have Soap be done with him then try to keep up the facade that Soap could actually want to become friends with him. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵, an ugly voice murmured in the back of his head.

“Ja, it stands for, ” a moment's hesitation, “…king,” König finally responded. Soap nodded his head, a concentrated look on his face.

𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴.

“Tha’s a pretty bad arse call sign, innit?”

𝘏𝘶𝘩?

“Wha language is tha' from?”

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘪𝘵?

Out of all the things König had been expecting he certainly wasn’t prepared for Soap to just accept the meaning and move on. Most would have questioned why he thought he deserved such a high title for himself, or would start to whisper about how he must think he’s better than them. Soap was certainly…different.

“I—uh, it’s German.”

“You’re German?” Soap asked, excitement and intrigue plain as day in his voice.

“Nein, I’m Austrian.”

“But you speak German, don’t ya?”

“Ja, but Austria is a heavily German speaking country. I don’t have to be born in Germany to speak the language.”

“Ah,” Soap clicked his tongue, “well, ya learn somethin new everyday.”

"Ja,” König agreed. Then, without really thinking, he asked, “What about you, Sergeant—ah, Soap?”

“Wha’ about me?” Soap asked, a small, impish smile creasing his face.

“I mean, uh, where did you get your call sign from? It's not one I'd usually hear. It's quite odd—I mean unique.” His voice got a bit quieter by the end. God, he wanted the ground to swallow him whole and to disappear all at once—if the Sergeant hadn't noticed his unshakable awkwardness, he certainly would have now.

To his relief Soap just laughed. "Ah, I'm glad you asked. I got my call sign from cleaning house with remarkable speed and accuracy," he explained with a proud grin.

"That's quite admirable."

"Eh," he shrugged, "it's nothin fancy like king, but it's still bloody impressive once y'know wha it stands for."

König nodded in agreement, staying silent for a minute and fiddling with his hands before working up the courage to ask, "Where are you from? I couldn’t help but notice you have an accent."

Soap's steps faltered, eyes widening before a huge grin broke out across his face. "Ah, I'm surprised you couldn't tell right away." He moved his hand up to point his thumb at his chest proudly. "I'm from Scotland."

König nodded then said, "I've never been to Scotland," simply to fill the silence. (Something he'd never thought he would do.)

Soap laughed. "Well then, you'll just have t' visit some time. Maybe I could take ya. Anyhow, this ere' is your room,” the Sergeant gestured to the door they came to stand in front of, "It’s meant to be for two, but lucky for you it's all yours. There's only a few rules Price has, one, no smokin,’ two, no harboring pets, and three, no loud noises after 0100. Simple, aye?"

König gave a small conformational nod. Soap took that as his cue to continue.

"If you need additional supplies like 𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘱–” a wink followed by a small grin. “You have to submit a request to PM, which I'm sure you're familiar with, but I gotta inform ya so Gaz doesn't get on my arse or tattle to Price. Got it, big guy?” The Sergeant leaned back on a wall, arms crossed against his chest as he tilted his head towards one side, staring at König, waiting for an answer.

“Ja, understood,” König replied, back stiffening up.

𝘔𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘵, 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘎𝘢𝘻?

“A’right then, I’ve gotta get on goin.’ Got a drill t' run with these bloody new recruits in five,”

Soap took a step forward towards König, a small smirk creasing his face. He extended a hand forward. “It was nice talking t’ you, König. M’ lookin’ forward t’ working with you.”

König exteneded his own hand, silently grateful for this social interaction to be done with. It wasn't that Soap was terrible to be around, no, it was just the Sergeant was a lot. He talked. And talked. And talked some more. It was never ending. It was pleasant conversation but not something he wanted to get accustomed to. “It was nice to speak with you too, Soap.”

The other man dropped his hand and gave him a small tap on the shoulder as he turned to leave, but before he even made it three steps away he quickly spun back around and said, "Oh, by the way, me an’ Ghost’s room is jus’ down tha’ way if you need anythin’.”

König froze. What did he say?

He and Ghost were roommates?

He stood there for a moment, awestruck, thoughts racing in his mind as he watched the Sergeant retreat down the hall.

From his understanding, every officer’s room had its own bed (or beds), some with their own bathrooms, even. However, in König’s experience, they typically didn’t involve having two entirely different ranking soldiers of such a caliber residing in them. And most bases that had officer's that permanently resided within them didn't usually have their soldiers share rooms—having temporary transfers like himself stay in the double rooms. Especially bases this fancy. So for Soap and Ghost to be roommates….that meant they had to be really, really, good friends or something.

Or something.

𝘖𝘩, 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦. Were they—

He shook his head. There was no way. It was just too unimaginable. Soap and Ghost seemed to be complete polar opposites. For them to—no. No, no, no. He was being ridiculous. Perhaps it was a situation much like his own? Yes. That was it. 141 simply put Soap and Ghost together despite their different rankings because they lacked rooms and were friends. It didn't matter that the base was more than big enough to house all its soldiers.

Besides, if that were the case, they'd be breaking so many rules and regulations, there was just no way they would really risk—

König let out a long, audible sigh, letting his shoulders slump.

𝘔𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘵. 𝘐𝘤𝘩 𝘣𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘤𝘩ö𝘱𝘧𝘵.^[1]

Today had been a whirlwind so far, and he wasn't even a full hour in yet. Not to mention he still had to unpack. This was not the time to worry about living accommodations that didn't even effect him personally.

Eventually, König managed to will himself to move and unlock his door, realizing that he had been staring into oblivion for a good few minutes since the Scotsman left.

The room was set up like a slightly wider college dorm room—if a dorm had steel bed beams and thick walls with a wide, narrow window. Next to said window was a small floating shelf above the head of the bed, probably for personal items or photos. On the side, there was a closet, a bit larger than what König was used to; inside it was empty.

There was a singular bed with his military standard duffel bag set atop of basic sheets and a pillow from whoever brought his belongings there. Across from it, where there would normally be another bed if he were sharing his space with someone, was a small desk with a chair. On the nightstand next to his bed was a lamp and a standard, basic alarm clock that read 16:45—

“Scheiße,” König muttered. He was scheduled to be at Captain Price's office by 16:40 as long as there were no delays in his flight. He was five minutes late.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took another five minutes or so of navigating the endless halls that had barely any signs on them or people around to ask for guidance, but König 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 found Captain Price’s office. He regretted not asking Soap for directions before he left.

With a silent breath of courage, König walked up to the wooden door and respectfully knocked on it twice with his knuckles.

Then, after about two seconds, a man called out from inside. “Come in.”

He pushed open the heavy door to the office, already feeling the tension tighten in his shoulders. The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes and ash. A smoker. The room held a faint layer of smoke stifling through the air, no doubt from the freshly put out cigarette the man before him had been smoking before he arrived; if the slightly opened window and fresh cigarette bud still sizziling in the poorly hidden ashtray was any indicator.

“König, correct?” the seated man asked. From the accent he was certainly British. He looked up at the Austrian from his desk full of papers and a computer, hard, blue eyes staring into König’s soul almost the same way the lieutenants had earlier; never blinking, opting to take in everything he could—committing his new, albeit temporary, soldier to his memory. The only difference between this stare and the lieutenants was that König didn’t feel like he was unnaturally seen through or a bug about to be squashed.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮?

König clasped his hands behind his back and straightened. “Yes, sir.”

“And am I sayin’ it right, 𝘒-𝘰𝘰𝘩-𝘯𝘪𝘨?”

“Yes, sir. König.”

“Good,” Price said, motioning him to the seat on the opposite side of his desk. “Have a seat there, lad.”

König quickly obliged, not wanting to waste anymore time than he already had.

“Y'know, you're late, König,” Price said, his voice calm and unbothered. König felt his jaw clench. Of course he was late, he got stuck in an endless conversation and then stranded in the maze that was this base. What was he supposed to do?

“Apparently, sorry, sir,” König muttered, trying to shake off the irritation that had settled in when he received the subtle jab from Price. He wanted to make a good first impression and definitely didn't want any issues with his superior. However, it wasn't just Price's little jab that bothered him. No, it was the fact he'd been in the field with his team for weeks, and it wasn’t until he returned to base that he learned he was now part of a coalition with Task Force 141. Not a word from his own command, and now he stood before the Captain of 141, feeling like a bull in a china shop. He knew he wasn't paid to ask questions—didn't deserve to ask them—but it still would've been nice to not be blindsided. Knowing your a trial run that could quite literally change the connections between two extremely powerful military factions was information that needed to be delivered a little in advance.

"First things first,” the Captain started, “do you prefer to be called 'König', or by your first or last name?”

König, admittedly, hadn’t been expecting that as one of the first things discussed with his new Captain. How long he’d be staying? Sure. What his role would be from here on out? Absolutely. What he wished to be called? Never. No superior he’s had thus far had ever asked him that before. They always just called him whatever they wanted, more often than not, his call sign.

“I prefer König, sir.”

Price nodded. "Is there a reason you're in a bad mood, König?" He asked, instantly calling him out. König fought against a wince. 𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ße, he thought. Just great, he was already making a bad impression. He considered playing dumb, but he knew that would be pointless. Price wasn't stupid—he was a Captain for a reason.

König hesitated, taking a deep breath. He shifted in his chair, fighting the urge to start tapping his leg, but he couldn't mask the tension in his posture. “I didn’t expect to be informed last minute about a coalition with such little information, sir. My team should have briefed me.”

Price hummed. “It seems they did,” he replied casually, finally looking away from König to shuffle some of the papers on his desk. “They told you you’d be joining us for a coalition and theres not much more to it then that, I'm afraid. Its mostly for classified reasons, and financial. S’not exactly a normal situation as you've probably guessed. That’s why you’re ere'. Guess they thought you’d be able to manage.”

König clenched his fists, feeling heat rise in his chest. “Manage? I’ve been managing fine without being blindsided by…,” he paused, searching for a diplomatic term but finding none, “decisions made without my knowledge. This was...unprofessional,” he finished, his voice growing weaker at the end. What was he 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨? Arguing with his new captain wasn't a smart move. The only thing it was doing was making 𝘩𝘪𝘮 seem unprofessional, like a baby whining over trivial matters. He hated conflict like this, why he was making such a big deal over it he couldn't say for sure. After all, it wasn't like it was his reputation he was worried about. The fact his reputation as a capable operator was now intertwined with what happened here at Task Force 141 couldn't be anymore insignifigant. What was signifigant was his impression with Price. He usually tried to play nice with his superiors but for some reason that wasn't the case here. Gott, he should've just laid down and rolled over for Price like he did so many others. What was wrong with him?

Price raised an eyebrow, a smirk ghosting across his lips. “Welcome to the military—unprofessional is our middle name. You want a medal for being miffed at your team?”

“No, sir.” König said, trying to keep his voice steady. It was pointless to argue. Gott, why was he so stupid? He should've just ignored his growing irritation. Now he was surely going to be sent back to KorTac and then be kicked out and—

“Just focus on the mission,” Price said, putting a paperclip on his stack of papers and returning his gaze to König. “We’re a team now, lad. Learn to work with us, yeah? The enemy isn’t goin' to wait for you to catch up an' I don't want to see you leaving ere' in a body bag.” Price said, his voice growing just a tad softer at the end.

König nodded, cursing himself for being such a child over all of this. It wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him and it wouldn't be the last. "I understand, sir,” the Austrian replied. "I will do my best to serve your company well."

"Right then, tha's what I wanna hear. I’ve heard good things bout' you, König,” the older man said, and turned the papers he'd been messing with to lay on the desk facing König. The Austrian sat up a little straighter on reflex. “It says ere' tha' you’re quite the effective insertion specialist. '𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘭 an' 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬.' Tha' true?”

König swallowed and answered the best he could. He had some ideas about what things that file could hold, and he knew his 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦—as most called it—wasn’t the prettiest. “Yes, sir. I aim to do my job the best I can.”

”Can I trust you t’ work alongside my team an’ get them home safely?”

“Of course, sir.”

"You going to go around causing trouble?"

"No, sir."

"An' I can trust your loyalty t’ me an’ my team, for the length of your stay ere'? No questions asked, no secrets kept? You're not trying to take advantage of us, are you?”

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? 𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴?

”Yes, I am loyal. I would never betray or keep secrets from you or your team throughout the duration of my stay, sir.”

Price hummed. “Tha’s just what I like to hear.”

The older man reached forward and put the file in front of them to the side. König stared at the front page of the small stack, specifically at the low quality picture of his masked face in the corner. He’s not sure why they even forced him to take the damned thing. It's not like they were able to get him to take off his hood or balaclava.

Clearly his new Captain was far more observant than he’d given him credit for because König had barely looked at the I.D. photo for more than two seconds before the man asked, “D’you wear the mask often?” His voice just a tad bit quieter than before, a bit more sympathetic.

König took a moment too long to answer, heart picking up speed, sweat beginning to build in his palms, words tumbling through his brain like fallen cards. He wasn't very fond of explaining himself and the 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥.

Still, he couldn’t just 𝘯𝘰𝘵 answer his superior’s question—no matter how much he wanted to. “Yes, I do, sir,” he eventually forced out, nearly cringing at the way his voice raised in pitch, almost cracking.

“You don' ave't explain it, lad,” Price cut in. “In fact, forget I asked. Everyone has their reasons and its certainly not my place to know yours unless you want to share.”

“Danke, sir,” he muttered, feeling his cheeks burn in embarrassment. Although he couldn't deny those words brought him some comfort, his shoulder muscles slightly relaxing.

“Course,” Price curtly said. After a moment of silence, he then added on, “Have you got any questions for me? Don’t be hesitant to ask.”

“Yes, sir,” König said. Then, “When will I meet my team?”

Price sighed and leaned back in his chair, bringing a hand to rest on his bearded chin as he considered his next few words. “I suppose some of 'em might be dodlin ‘round ere' somewhere. You'd probably find some of ’em in the gym and training areas, or the rec room,” Price said. “We’ll have a briefing on your upcoming mission tomorrow afternoon at 1500. It should be on your itinerary. If you haven’t met ‘em all by then, then you’ll see ‘em there.”

“Ah, I see,” the Austrian said. That was good. It meant he didn’t have to go out of his way to meet anyone.

“Right, then. You got anything else you’d like to ask me before you get settled in?”

Not wanting to bombard his new Captain with endless questions so soon König responded, “No, sir.”

“A’right, from this moment on you’re now officially a part of the 141. I’m proud to say welcome, and I expect good things from you.”

Chapter Text

König shifted uncomfortably, painfully aware of every small movement from a limb or muscle in his body.

He avoided eye contact as best he could, but every so often he would catch someone throwing a curious, almost trepidatory glance in his direction, sending a wave of anxiety up his spine. It made him dread coming out to lunch even more.

The space—despite having come down a little closer to the end of the lunch period to get a quick bite to eat before his briefing with Price and the rest of his new team later without having to socialize with others—was crowded, with dozens of other soldiers, but he was the only one still and silent, seemingly bereft of motion.

He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead under the hood as he tried to focus on not drawing more attention to himself, trying his best to be as inconspicuous as possible. It didn’t help much that he could feel his heart thumping in his chest alongside a current of mild anxiousness buzzing under his skin, coursing through his veins, causing him to tighten his hold on the tray in his hands.

He wanted to just walk up the line, grab his food, eat, and leave. Or maybe just skip the whole eating part in general and leave, but with every step he'd taken just to get his tray, he'd felt the eyes of soldiers he'd passed boring into him, watching his every move.

Somehow along the way, the Austrian managed to find a corner of solace where he was able to hide away from the majority of prying eyes. As a result, he's been standing there for the past couple of minutes, silently weighing the cons and pros of just leaving while simultaneously being all too aware of the soldiers around him.

König’s eyes wandered around the room, taking in the other soldiers, all seemingly so much more sure of themselves than he could ever hope to be. He practically watched in awe as some of the more seasoned soldiers would joke and jest with each other, seemingly so casual and calm in a situation that made him want to scream.

He knew he should be doing the same, that he should try to, "get out of that damn shell he hides in and live a little", as Horangi so graciously liked to say, but he simply couldn't bring himself to join in. Every time in the past he tried to contribute, the fear in his voice would rise, and he would either disregard what he was going to say and simply not speak or his words would come out as either a faint mumble or just one big jumbled mess. And standing here right now, despite being in a room full of people, made him feel isolated and vulnerable, like a rabbit in a hunter's crosshairs.

This was the part of transferring to a new base that König hated the most. The feeling of every person watching his movements, judging him, ridiculing him with whispers he always tried to ignore. The ones that made him out to be the bad guy; the man who thought he was better than everyone else because of his damn height. Like he asked to have rumors spread about him like a forest on fire. And if it wasn't his height they focused on, then it was the way he fought, or how he was always so quiet and didn't socialize, or the fact he wore a mask. There was always 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

No matter what he did, he never fit with anyone. He was always the clog in the well-oiled machine of war that stopped the smooth movements of all the others. The one that was all rusted and broken and needed to be tossed away but was still too valuable to get rid of, at least until the job was done. Then, once it was done, they'd toss him away without a moment's hesitation.

Even with the members of KorTac, he felt the strain he brought along, though not as strong as it was everywhere else, it was there nonetheless.

Maybe if he wasn't so weak, he could actually manage to do something about all the whispers and rumors that spread around him like wildfire. Or maybe if he could finally learn to get over his damn anxiety and toughen up, he could function like a normal human being and not give a shit about what the others thought.

It was wishful thinking; the Austrian knew that. He'd never be able to belong somewhere; he was too much of a coward to put a stop to the whispers, too much of an overthinker to not cling onto every word said about him, too useless to be cared about, too broken to—

“König!” The Austrian tensed, nearly dropping the tray he’d been holding, as a familiar Scottish accent cut through his thoughts. He turned his head toward where the sound of his name originated from, instantly spotting a mohawked Sergeant bounding towards him. “There ya are, been lookin’ for ya.”

A deep breath escaped König as he allowed his muscles to relax at the sight of a familiar face. “Oh, Soap, it’s just you.”

Soap's face scrunched up, as if he were surprised and suspicious. "Wha's that supposed to mean, eh?" Soap asked accusingly. "Ya disappointed to see me?"

𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵? König thought, standing there blankly while staring at Soap. He held his tongue, unsure what he had said to have offended the Scotsman. He nervously glanced around the room, trying to avoid the all-too-familiar gaze the Sergeant had firmly set on him that seemed to pierce into his soul, awaiting an answer. It felt like he was standing in front of a judge, waiting for his verdict to be announced.

The Austrian's mind raced with possibilities for why Soap was angry and how he could respond. Was he really offended, or was König being paranoid? He hadn't said anything wrong, right?

"I—nein, that's not what I meant. I just—” How was he supposed to fix this? He’d tried not to make a bad impression on the Sergeant yesterday, and here he was already messing up, not even a full twenty-four hours later. What had he done to make the universe hate him?

"Relax, mate, he’s just messin’ with ya," a voice from behind him piped up. Another British accent, similar to Price’s. “Soap, you wazzock, quit teasin' the man.”

König turned around to look at the man behind him. Unsurprisingly, he was shorter than König (𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 here was) and had a similar build to Soap, only he was taller by a couple of inches. His hair was pretty similar to Soap's as well, except his looked less questionable—close-shaved on the sides and back, with a bit more length on top, poofing a bit with his dark, curly locks, unlike Soap's bold and eye attracting mohawk. His face was mostly clean shaven with the exception of a thin mustache above his upper lip and stubble lining the angles of his jaw. He was looking up at König’s face with something akin to wonder.

“Whew, he's bloody tall, innit he?"

Soap cut in around him—"Dammit Gaz, why’d ya ave' to barge in like tha'? I was just startin’ to make him sweat!”

"Exactly. Stop acting like an arsehole in front O' our new transfer ere'. Wha’s he gonna tell his team abou’ us when he gets back?”

“M’ just having a little fun, besides, I think König ere' can speak for himself,” Soap said, then turned to König. “You realized I was just messin' about, right?”

The Austrian stood there, looking between Gaz and Soap for a moment. It was pretty clear that these two were close. Strangely, they reminded König of the two side characters who bicker and joke around with each other in movies. Only there to provide comical relief but would capture the audience's hearts and become the favorites.

“I…ja.” König said after a moment. That pulled a small huff of amusement from the Brit.

“Ye don’ have to lie to him, mate. He does this with everyone. He acts all friendly, but in truth, he’s just a smartass with a dry sense of humor an' a bad haircut.”

“Hey, 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 insult my haircut, Gaz. Everyone knows a mohawk has way more character than a plain old hairstyle everyone from their great granny to baby is doin'.”

“That is false, and you know it, Soap,” Gaz said, a small smirk on his face.

“Like hell it is.”

“Sure, sure, believe what you want.”

“Wha' you tryin’ to say?”

“Nuthin, just… why do you think all the ladies fall for a man with a classic, 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘺𝘭𝘦 haircut, huh? I’ll tell ya, its because it’s clean and not some wild eyesore tha' reminds them of punk rock nundrethals nobody wants to look at.”

“Wha’ do ya mean, ‘every lady falls for a man with a classic haircut,’ most don’t care what type of haircut a guy’s got, just that they ave' hair,” Soap shot back.

"Whatever ya gotta tell yourself," Gaz said with a chuckle, unable to keep it contained. That comment on men needing hair for a girl to like them was funny, okay?

Soap crossed his arms and tilted his head. “You know, Gaz, you can mock my mohawk all you want, but it’s got character. It’s not just about looking neat, it’s about the 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 package. An' this mohawk? It’s part of who I am. It stands out, just like me. So maybe you should stop worrying bout' wha' ladies think and start appreciating a bit of individuality, aye?”

Gaz groaned. “Alright, alright, Soap. I’ll give you tha'. Your mohawk’s got… character.”

“Damn right it does,” Soap grinned.

Gaz mumbled something under his breath with an eye roll, then turned to König, that look of wonder and curiosity coming back. “How tall are you?” He asked, his full attention back on him now. König froze like a deer in headlights.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘌𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸? The Austrian wondered. Just a moment ago, the Brit was arguing with Soap, and now he was asking about his height?

“Dammit Gaz, you can’t just ask the man that out O' nowhere! Didn't your mom teach you any manners?”

“Oh, right, the name’s Gaz. Guess I shoulda introduced myself earlier,” Gaz said with a small chuckle and held his hand out.

“Um—“ König blinked, unsure of what to say and still struggling to follow the line of conversation. He barely managed to will enough brain cells to shake the Brits hand. “I am König.”

“Yeah, you’re tha' new transfer from KorTac everyone’s been on about. How’d that even happen, anyway?”

Gradually, his muscles eased. Gaz seemed to be okay. Just a man who was amiable and naturally curious as to why there was a hood-bearing KorTac operator in his halls. Yeah, everyone here was probably interested in the 𝘸𝘩𝘺𝘴 and 𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘴 of his arrival.

“Well, I do not know the whole story myself,” he shrugged. “Captain Price said the factions are forming a temporary coalition.”

“A coalition, eh? Who’da thought?” The dark-skinned man muttered. “Are there more of you coming, or?”

“I am not sure. For now, it appears to just be me,” The Austrian answered honestly. He wasn’t sure if any more members from KorTac would be coming to join him or not. If he had to guess who would be sent if such a thing occurred, he would assume Horangi would be the best candidate.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘎𝘢𝘻 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱, König thought idly. They were all quite similar in the aspect of being outgoing and friendly afterall.

Gaz hummed as though König had just answered with some huge revolutionary response. “Guess we’ll just ave'to wait and see then. Anyway, back to my earlier question, how tall are you?”

“I—“ König said, eyes darting from his tray, to his feet, then back to his tray— "six foot eight?” He said unsurely, more of a question than an answer.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘎𝘢𝘻 𝘴𝘰 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵? He wondered silently.

Soap let out a single, startlingly loud laugh. "Are you asking or telling us?”

“Aye, lay off him, Soap,” Gaz scolded, then continued on with his earlier train of thought. “If I’m not mistaken, Ghost’s only six foot four, right?”

“Huh, why do you—” Soap began, then abruptly cut himself off, eyes widening. “Ah, I see wha you’re gettin’ at,” a wide grin spread across his face. “I already know the answer to your question. König ere’ 𝘪𝘴 taller than L.T.; I saw it with my own eyes yesterday.”

The Brits eyebrows raised as he blew out a puff of air. “S’that right? Never thought there’d be a day when I saw someone taller than Ghost. I mean, I heard the rumors, but seeing it in person is a whole 'nother story. Bloody wish I had tha' gift of height,” Gaz said.

𝘖𝘩, 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵, König thought. Gaz was just curious about if he was taller than Ghost, which he unsurprisingly was.

"Don't we all?" Soap nodded his head along in agreement, then his eyes flickered down to the bare tray in König’s hands. “Oh, hey, have you eaten yet?”

König blinked. “Uh, nein, not yet.”

“Right then, you wanna join me to get somethin’ to eat?”

König hesitated for a moment, then, accepting that this was probably his best option if he wanted to have anything to eat for the day, nodded. “Ja.”

Soap grinned. “Awesome,” he turned to Gaz. “How bout' you?”

“Nah, I’m good. I just finished eating not too long ago, so I’ll let you two be. Just don’t forget about the briefing with Price. You’ve already been pushing your luck by being late 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘦 in the past month.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there, 𝘮𝘶𝘮,” Soap said with an eye roll, his voice a teasing tone. “We both know Price ain’t gonna do jack shite about a few tardies. He loves me deep down, after all.”

“Ah, fuck off ya cocky bastard,” Gaz said as he walked away. Despite his words, König could see the grin fighting to break across the Brits face before he completely turned his back to both him and Soap.

"Right then," Soap said and turned to König. "Now tha' that party pooper is gone, lets get somethin' to eat, yeah?"

"Oh, uh, ja. Sure."

For a moment König was allowed to revel in the silence as he and Soap made their way through the lunch line, but it didn't last long before Soap spoke up and asked, “So, you settlin in well?”

König gave himself a lightly portioned spoonful of rice and beans with some meatloaf before responding, “Yes, I finished unpacking earlier today.”

“Tha’s good t’here,” Soap said, grabbing his own portions of food and exiting the line, König hot on his heels. “Alright, big guy. Come sit with me over ‘ere.”

König tensed.

𝘉𝘪𝘨 𝘨𝘶𝘺. Usually, he didn’t like being called that—the tease always held more of a inmical meaning than a benevolent one. But from Soap, it didn’t feel like it held any malicious intent. In fact, he found he didn't mind being called that when it was coming from the Sergeant.

König nodded, following close behind as Soap weaved his way through the cafeteria. He kept his eyes trained to the ground as he followed Soap to a table near a corner of the room, passing by groups of soldiers. Heads turned to look at him as he passed. Whispers were uttered. Countless eyes were on him again.

He hunched his shoulders up; trying and miserably failing to make himself smaller. Even with the hood, he felt exposed under the hundreds of gazes fixated on him. It was like he was the last piece of meat in a lion's den. He should’ve just skipped lunch.

König lifted his eyes to stare at the Scotsman's back in front of him. There was no way Soap didn’t notice the stares, too. No way he wasn’t hearing the whispers. And yet, Soap walked as if he didn't have a care in the world except for getting to a table for himself and König to eat at.

𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, König realized. Whether it was out of pity or because Soap genuinely didn't care, he didn’t know.

The Scotsman sat down on one side of the bench, and König sat across from him. Immediately, the shorter of the two began tearing into his food.

“So, wha' did you think of Gaz? I know he’s got no taste in 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 hairstyles, but he’s good at heart,” Soap said after swallowing a piece of bread.

König lifted the edge of his hood up, bringing a spoonful of rice to his mouth, acutely aware of the Sergeant's eyes glued to him. He quickly ate it and dropped the hood back down, pretending not to hear the silent huff of frustration from Soap. It was obvious he wanted to see what was under the hood, so why was he not asking about it?

“He's quite amusing. Although...” König hesitated, thinking about the right choice of wording. "He seems hard to keep up with."

Soap snorted. “Tha’ he is,” he agreed. After eating another bite, he spoke up again. “So, who else have you met so far?”

“Just you, the Lieutenant, and the Captain. And, well, now Gaz.”

“Hmm, it seems ya met pretty much everyone on the team, save for Roach, but he’s on a mission an' won’t be back for a few weeks yet.”

König nodded along. He didn’t know who Roach was, but it seemed he’d be staying here for a while, so there was no doubt he’d eventually meet the soldier.

“Anyhow,” Soap said, starting to stack up his plates on his tray, “you ready t’go, big guy? It’s bout' time to get to the briefing. You’re going too, right?”

“Oh, ja,” the Austrian replied, and began to stack his own tableware on his tray. “I’m going.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

König and Soap were the first to enter the conference room. The table sitting in the middle of the room was wooden with a long, rectangle-shaped top, six chairs on each side, and a pull-down projector screen with a whiteboard and pin board at the head.

Soap immediately took one of the seats down from the head of the table. König, unsure of where to sit, went to take a seat across from the Sergeant, not wanting to just invite himself over and force Soap to be in his close proximity any longer than necessary, but was stopped by the other waving him back over to sit next to him.

“Where ya goin’? Come sit ‘ere, König,” Soap said, patting the back of the seat next to his. The Austrian hesitated for a moment, eyeing the chair wearily like he was expecting something to pop out and attack him, before he slowly made his way over and sat down.

It wasn’t long before Gaz bounded into the room, quickly taking his own seat next to Soap.

“Bout’ bloody time you got ere’. What was it you said? ‘Don’t forget about the briefing’. Funny how me and König ere’ were the first ones and not you,” Soap teased.

"Shut up. You just got lucky," Gaz retorted, earning a small snicker from Soap. The Scotsman opened his mouth, as though he was about to give a retort of his own, but the sound of heavy footsteps outside the door cut off whatever the Sergeant was going to say, instead drawing everyone's attention.

König quickly stiffened, time passing by in slow motion as the door knob turned. One man walked in: Ghost.

"Hey, L.T.," Soap addressed, a grin wide across his face. The lieutenant—instead of greeting the Scotsman back like a normal person—only glanced at Soap for about three seconds before he set his sights on König.

König didn't dare move a muscle, feeling as if he did it would set off some internal alarm to trigger Ghost's flight or fight. And something told the Austrian the lieutenant didn’t have a flight response. That thought alone sent a shiver throughout König’s body.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮?

Things only got worse—König's heart plummeted as he watched Ghost take the empty seat right across from him (despite there being plenty of others to choose from.) He wanted to merge with the ground and never be seen again. Specifically by those eyes. Those 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 eyes. They bore into him like knives, so different compared to the skull-masked man's body language—shoulders set back, his legs comfortably spread, taking up all the space on his seat and then some. Like a man who didn’t have a care in the world. A king who was on top of his throne and looking down at a peasant he knew held no signifigance in comparison to him.

König tried to ignore Ghost, deciding to fiddle with his right glove, but something that seemed to be a recurring nightmare was that the lieutenant’s presence was always known, swallowing everyone else's, just like a blackhole swallowed anything stuck in its gravitational pull.

The Austrian shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ghost had the kind of stare that weighed on people, the kind that made them slowly lose any sense of contol. He despised it. Hated that, somehow, one look from a single man was all it took to make him feel small. Like he was being examined under a microscope—every gesture, every expression being analyzed and judged. He could tell Soap and Gaz felt the weight of Ghost's stare as well. Both Sergeants seemed to be glancing between them, each unsure of what to do under the tense conditions. Eggshells. That's what this situation was. Everyone was walking on eggshells with no clear way to get to safe, solid, unsharp ground and König hated it. Hated the guilt of being the cause of it. Hated Ghost for making him feel this way. Hated—

"Hey, Soap," Gaz started, cutting off König's inner turmoil. "What d'ya reckon our next mission's gonna be?"

Soap hummed. "No clue," he said after a moment.

"Seriously? Tha's the best you got? No guesses like, 'take down some terrorists' or 'go on a grocery shop run for some more coffee'?"

Soap couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped him. "Aye, tha's a good one. Wouldn't tha' be somethin? Price calling us all ere' just to get him his cup O' coffee."

Gaz grinned but quickly covered it up with a "stern" expression. "Hey, if he needs coffee than that's more than enough of a reason to call all us ere'. If Price doesn't ave' his coffee he'll be an international threat to all O' us for sure."

"Hah, you're not wrong. He'd be more scary than L.T. by far," Soap said with a grin, glancing over at said man. He had a mischievous glint in his eye, something that made the hairs on König's arms stand on end. It was astonishing how Soap could make small jabs at Ghost, who was practically the incarnation of death, like that. If he tried to do that he was sure to get a bullet through the skull. He couldn't even imagine talking to the guy without being strangled.

"That's enough," Ghost said, his voice a deep rumble. Stern and cold. He took his eyes off König to glare at Gaz and Soap, his gaze like ice. Somehow his gaze seemed colder with them than König. It sent a chill up the Austrians spine; unaware that look could get any worse. "Missions aren’t a joke. People’s lives are on the line. You're soldiers, so act like it."

König felt guilt begin to pool in his stomach as he watched Gaz and Soap shrink back from Ghost, who he was sure was only so irritable because of him and would usually not care, but his guilt was nothing compared to Ghost's. Ghost hated how he was forced to watch Gaz and Soap shift uncomfortably in their seats from his words. He knew he was too harsh. That Gaz and Soap, much like most soldiers, use jokes to cover up the sad truth to the horror they face every day. That using humor to disconnect from reality when given the chance was crucial for them because when they have to be on the field, there isn't time for jokes. There is no denying or ignoring the pain they see and go through out there. But he just couldn't stop himself from snapping. They were just sitting there, being so casual, as if their newcomer beside them wasn't someone they knew nothing about. Someone they should be weary of. König was dangerous, and here they were completely oblivious to that fact.

König wanted to curse as Ghost's gaze shifted back to him almost as quickly as it left. The lieutenants eyes were somehow even worse than when they left. Stone cold. As if he was blaming König for what just transpired. The room was dead silent, the weight of Ghost’s words pressing down on everyone. It must've been centuries before footsteps began to echo outside the door, and König steeled his nerves as Captain Price walked in. He came to stand at the head of the table, a stack of papers in one hand along with a laptop in the other.

He let the stack fall heavily on the table, but gingerly placed his laptop down. The room dimmed, and the projector illuminated the pulled down white screen behind him.

König thanked whatever universal being that had been watching that he finally had something to distract him from the weight of Ghost's gaze and the thick silence in the room.

“A'right, so I’m sure you’ve realized tha' today we’ve got a new addition t' the team,” Price announced, his voice low, yet resonating in the room. He gestured towards the Austrian. “This 'ere is lieutenant König. He’s our transfer from KorTac, an’ he’ll be working with us as an insertion specialist for the next eleven months, so I suggest you make friends.”

The room was quiet, save for the sounds of breathing and the nearly silent whirl of the projector. Everyone was looking at König, eight pairs of eyes focused on him. He bit the inside of his cheek. Why did it feel so awkward?

“Right, say hello, introduce yourselves if you haven't already, don't say anything, the choice is yours. I'm going to get the mission details uploaded,” Price said after a beat, immediately getting to work on his laptop.

The room was silent for a long, excruciating moment. König swallowed, keeping his eyes pinned to his hands folded in front of him.

“So,” Soap drawled, breaking the silence. “When were you gonna tell us tha’ you’re a lieutenant?” he asked. Gaz was looking at him too, nodding in the background. And, of course, Ghost was looking at him. They were all waiting.

König's cheeks warmed under the hood, and he felt sheepish. Really, his rank wasn’t something he thought about often. It wasn't even like it was something he held any great significance for. It was just a title he had earned while he was in the army in Austria, and since he left, he hadn’t really cared for it.

It never felt right to him to impose his rank upon others. Whether that was a cultural thing or just his own preference he wasn't sure. He just knew it felt wrong to force others who had known each other much longer than him to acknowledge him as a superior unless necessary.

“I figured you were already informed,” is all he managed to say.

“S'tha's fair I suppose. Sounds like a mistep from our captain," a glance over to Price who let out a heavy sigh, as though he was a tired dad and far too used to Soap picking on him. "But tha's okay. He informed us eventually, after all. Now, on to the important question. Shoul’ I be calling you sir?” Soap asked, and even though there was a hint of amusement there, he was being dead serious. He may be known to push his luck constantly, like being tardy here and there or bending the rules on small trivial things, but he wasn't disrespectful. If König wanted him to, he would call him by his respected title.

König had to physically repress a shudder the moment those words fell from the Scotsmans mouth. Yeah, no. None of 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.

“That’s not necessary,” he said.

“Right then, and ere' I was, thinking he’s just like us, aye, Gaz?” Soap asked, tilting his head in the Brit’s direction.

“Yeah, he had me there, too, not gonna lie,” the other Sergeant agreed, nodding his head solemnly.

König's cheeks burned hotter under the hood. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. His rank wasn't that special. They didn't need to bring so much attention to some title on paper.

"Say, Gaz…," Soap began, "you think König ere' is higher ranking than L.T. over there?" he joked, glancing over at the masked man across the table, who hadn’t said a single word since entering the room.

König felt the urge to sigh. Why did everyone feel the need to compare him to Ghost?

The Brit opened his mouth, clearly ready to share his opinion, but before he could even get the making of a word on his tongue, the statement "No, he's not" resonated across the room, the voice a rough shuffle on gravel. Low bass, rumbling. A smoker, most likely.

Everyone turned to Ghost.

How had 𝘩𝘦 known that? Was on the forefront of everyone's mind. Especially König's. He never remembered telling the lieutenant his rank, so how did Ghost somehow know he wasn't higher ranking?

Too busy focusing on Ghost, who was still looking at him like he wanted to cut him into tiny pieces and feed him to the birds, König didn’t notice the lightly squinted look Soap was giving the man.

"And how do you know tha'?" Gaz asked, speaking the question on everyones mind.

Ghost gave a half effort shrug. "Just a hunch."

Gaz squinted at Ghost. "Fine then, be like that," He huffed, then turned to König. "What's your ranking as lieutenant?"

The Austrian flinched, his attention being brought away from the skeleton wearer. "Oh, its," a glance back over to Ghost, "Second lieutenant."

Gaz hummed. "Damn, so Ghost ere' is right. He's one rank higher than you."

König (unsure of what to say to that) gave a small nod. Then he looked over to Ghost through the corner of his eye.

Even though the lieutenant had only denied that König was higher ranking than him on a "hunch", to König, it felt more like a silent boast of a challenge. One that Ghost was showing he'd won.

It's possible Price had told Ghost his rank before the briefing. It would make sense, since he was the one who would take lead point on missions. But for some reason that answer just felt 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. There was some other reason as to why Ghost knew his rank. But what—

“Listen up,” Price said, cutting through König's train of thought. All eyes landed on Price.

"Your 𝘰𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦," he said, pointing to the wall behind him where images of faces, papers, and buildings were projected, “is to disrupt a small, underground human trafficking ring. We've been tracking their movements for some time, and we ave' reliable reports that say that they recently moved a shipment to this building 𝘦𝘳𝘦'," Price pointed to a neighborhood building, “a townhouse on the North side of Algiers."

The screen behind Price changed to a blueprint layout of the townhouse. "There are four stories to the house. We don’t know which level holds the hostages, so you’ll 'ave t' search each until you find 'em,” he explained.

“You four are the insertion leaders ere', an’ will have an SAS team going in with you. Be advised, there may be non combatants on target. Check your shots."

“König—“ at the mention of his name, the Austrian slightly straightened his posture. “we’ll be counting on you to ge' us in and out, on effective time. If we act quickly, we can disrupt their activities an' rescue the hostages with minimal casualties.”

Price leaned his hands against the edge of the table, eyeing all of them. “Now, remember this is a stealth op. We don't want them knowing we're there before we make entry. You’ll get in, search, an' get out. Search and rescue. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 is your mission.”

“Yes, sir,” they all said in nearly perfect unison.

“Good,” Price nodded. “You’ll be flying out in fifteen. Unless you ave' any questions you’re dismissed.”

The sounds of chairs scooting across the floor filled the room, and König, being the first to stand, all too eager to finally get out of the confined conference room and away from the lieutenant's ever present gaze, nearly missed the “See you later” Soap gave him.

He had, however, managed a small nod in return, not confident enough to say anything—not when Ghost was right beside the Sergeant, hovering over him like the grim reaper itself.

Seriously, what was the guy's problem? Had he done something to upset him? He'd only been at the base a day, so what could he have possibly done to offend him?

"Hey mate, wait up!" A familiar British accent called from behind.

König held back a sigh. Really, what was it with every extrovert in this place being drawn to him? Was it so much to ask for a moment of peace and quiet?

He turned to Gaz, who was quickly walking towards him. "Ja?" He asked.

"Hey, I just wanted to say back there in the briefing I know Ghost was a bit… 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘺."

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵.

"Just wanted to tell ya not to take him too seriously. It's like tha' with him pretty much round the clock. Promise he's not mad at you or anything. Just needs some time to warm up to ya."

Despite how genuine Gaz seemed, König found his words rather doubtful. He had reason to believe that Ghost might be upset about something concerning him.

Well, it wasn't like he knew the man well enough to be sure, but everyone back in that briefing could feel the tension dripping off of the lieutenant. There had been a crack in Ghost's cold, stone-like exterior, and hot irritation had bled through. And Gaz being there, standing right infront of him, confirmed his suspicions that it wasn't all just in his head, despite the Sergeant trying to put his mind at ease.

Still, he couldn't just out right discard Gaz's words. He had to say 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 socially acceptable.

"Thank you for telling me," König said, trying his best not to sound awkward.

Gaz grinned. "No problem. I hear enough from the recruits bout' how intimidatin' Ghost can be, especially when ya first meet im'. Though I'm sure a big guy like you has nothing to worry about."

"I— thank you?" König said, simply to fill the quietness. He wasn't sure if Gaz had meant that as a compliment or if it was just some off handed comment that held no significance.

Gaz chuckled. "You're an interesting one, ya know tha'?"

König, once again found himself at a crossroad for what to say. Thankfully, before he had to muster up an answer, Gaz continued.

"How's settlin' in at the base? Ave' yeh met any new faces?"

König stared at Gaz. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨? Hadn't he noticed how awkward he was by now? Gaz could literally be doing anything else, and here he was wasting his time talking to him.

"Uh, nein. I haven't met anyone new," König said after a moment, choosing to leave out how he had purposely taken advantage of the fact he was going to meet his team at today's briefing to not socialize further. Then added, "I've just been unpacking."

Gaz nodded his head. "Aye, that does take a bit O' time. Still, if yer ever feelin' lonely, there's always Soap an' me." He laughed, giving the Austrian a friendly pat on the back.

König found he didn't completely mind Gaz touching him.

"Hey, König?" Gaz asked.

König hummed.

"Truth is, I didn't just come to tell ya not to mind Ghost’s broody attitude. I was also wondering…," he hesitated a moment, considering his words. "Do ya know yer way to the helipad? I know you've only had a day to settle in so if you'd like me to I can show ya the way. I know how big this place can be. Trust me, in my first few weeks ere', I got lost more times than I could count."

"Oh, uh," König's cheeks burned under the hood. Despite Soap showing him around yesterday he hadn't really gotten the chance to commit it all to memory. And as much as he wanted to say he didn't need to be shown the way, he quickly remembered just how long it had taken him to find Price's office yesterday, and slightly grimaced at the thought of keeping his whole team waiting like he'd done to Price.

If he could help it, he’d like to make better impressions on his teammates this time around.

"Ja," König finally managed to get out. "If you wouldn't mind."

Gaz chuckled. "Not at all. Come on, it’s this way."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His first mission with Task Force 141.

He was finally getting back into the field and for some reason instead of having the usual anticipation, he felt nervous.

Maybe it had something to do with how his new team was finally going to see him in the field, see his 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦, as so many called it.

It was no mystery to him that his style was more or less on the… reckless side. It was honestly a wonder to him how Price hadn’t thoroughly questioned him about it during their first meeting. Don’t get him wrong, though; he wasn’t an absolute bonehead—he was a special forces operator, after all.

It was just, he got to be the first one who charged into rooms full of armed enemies, the first to get to 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 the rush cranking up his adrenaline, clouding his vision, causing his heart to jackhammer in his chest as the fight-or-flight kicked in, and then 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 that instinct all together, unable to afford giving a damn about the possibility of death. Not when his only concern was to get the job done.

In the moment, he was able to forget about everything—his past, the present, the future—only having his primitive instincts. And it was like a wonderful, weightless, blissful euphoria that he could never get enough of.

Then it was usually over in the blink of an eye, and he was back to square one, only then he had to deal with the consequences of his actions. The bloody aftermath of his rampages. The nightmares that haunted him even when he was awake. The 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 his teammates gave him.

It hurt, of course. The bullets. The grenades. The shrapnel being embedded into his skin. The 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴. But it didn't 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳. Not when he was able to feel that high.

Besides, it wasn’t like the looks or pain were anything new anyway. Since he was a kid, he's been on the receiving end of nasty looks and punches. Whether it was from bullies or the competitors in the underground ring he'd fight in to help his mother pay the bills after his asshole of a father left her, his younger brother, and him high and dry when he was seven.

He may have only been an awkward, lanky teen with shaggy hair, but he was 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭 with some muscle; it had been enough for a coach to willingly take him under their wing at least.

Maybe that's where he found his love for combat and the rush of adrenaline it brought.

He'd been desperate to help his mother, but no one was willing to hire the kid who could barely read, let alone write; his younger brother had been sickly growing up, and with his mother pulling doubles on top of doubles to keep a roof over their heads, he had to be the one to stay home from school to take care of him.

So when he'd been left with nowhere to turn other than the ring, he'd accepted.

It had been sustainable for some time. He was able to give all the money he earned to his mother. But like the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.

Shortly after he'd been fighting in the ring, only being fifteen, his mother had met some guy who was just another version of his father. Only this time, more cruel.

König never knew why his mom didn't leave the bastard after the first hit, instead choosing to turn to drinking to numb the pain, and he never stuck around to find out. The moment he was seventeen he lied and said he was eighteen and got himself shipped off to the army away from it all.

He already had some fighting experience, and it wasn't like he could get any other job, not with his lack of education. So instead, he abandoned his brother and mother to start his own life.

Probably the one thing he had been proud of about that whole situation was that he socked the bastard his mother called a boyfriend right in the nose, breaking it before he left.

Consider it karma, if you will.

Sadly, he never spoke to his brother again after he left. Something that has haunted him his whole life, but it wasn't like he could just bring a nine-year-old to war, and he couldn't stay and take his mother's cries or the bastards hits anymore either.

Still, despite knowing that, he'd never been able to forgive himself for leaving his brother with an alcoholic mother and her abusive boyfriend. However, he never stopped checking in on him.

It had taken time, but he'd eventually been able to get back into contact with his mother after four years of service. Granted, it was only because she was dying from her liver shutting down. But still, he'd been able to heal old wounds and get the occasional check-in about how his brother was doing.

König wasn't all too surprised when he'd learned his brother had gotten into drugs in his time away, but it still hurt knowing if he'd stuck around then maybe, just maybe, his brother wouldn't have thrown his life away.

It was only a year and a half after being in contact with his mother that she finally died. He'd been sad, sure, and if he could've gone to her funeral, he would've, but he was on deployment, and taking the time to try and request leave wouldn't have been worth it.

After her death he never knew what became of his brother, whether he preferably went to rehab and got his life together, or if he was still out there getting high off his ass, or worse, dead in some alleyway from an O.D.

Anyhow, it goes without saying that König knew he was sick. A bastard who would get high off adrenaline, who 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 for it, and bathed himself in it for as long as he could before it was taken away.

Perhaps this time, if he could help it, he wouldn't leave a bitter taste in his teammates’ mouths. He had eleven more months with T.F. 141. He couldn’t fuck it all up that quickly, right?

“You alright, mate?” Gaz suddenly asked him, being the first person to speak to him since they boarded.

König immediately stilled, stopping his leg he'd been unaware of bouncing, muscles seizing. More pairs of eyes fell on him, Soap included, watching him.

“Ja, I am fine,” he told Gaz, who sat next to him after showing him the way to the helipad. Gaz only nodded, and slowly, one by one, they all stopped looking at him.

Ghost then muttered something to Soap, speaking quietly, but just loud enough for König to hear:

“—eye on him, don’t want anythin’ going wrong,” the Brit said.

Soap said something in response, something even quieter, and all König was able to hear was his name being uttered. He could see the Scotsman’s eyebrows furrow with tension and the way his jaw muscles tightened under his skin as he clenched his jaw, a subtle retaliation more than an agreement.

Like they’ve talked about this before.

About him.

König bit the inside of his cheek, only stopping when he pierced the tissue and felt blood begin to pool in his mouth.

From what he was gathering, Ghost was concerned that he was going to fuck something up like a rookie, like he hadn't been doing this for 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. Just that thought alone made his blood boil, and he had to fight against clenching his fists in the chance that it would give away that he had been listening, that he wasn't some unaware mindless bug Ghost could just step on.

It was possible Ghost was just concerned about having to entrust a part of his team to someone he'd never met until yesterday. Someone who just so happened to be from a rivaling faction. But something told König that wasn't it. Ghost was a seasoned soldier; things like this weren’t new to him.

That left the slim chance that maybe, just maybe, it was 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 that was causing the lieutenant to be so hostile. Fear that König had intent on stealing leadership from him. Which, in itself, was absurd. König could care less about powering through the ranks and he certainly had no interest in leading others.

He was almost tempted to tell Ghost just that, but then decided against it when he realized that would mean admitting he'd been eavesdropping, which would 𝘯𝘰𝘵 help Ghost trust him. He would just have to let the other come to that conclusion himself.

Besides, when the Austrian thought about it, it wasn't strange that Ghost was concerned. Any leader in any job would be a little wary of someone new. But Ghost seemed to be 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 than wary of him, if the dead, soulless stares he kept sending his way had anything to show.

The question was 𝘸𝘩𝘺. He hadn't done anything other than arrive at 141 like he'd been ordered to do by his superiors. There wasn't any reason to treat him like Ghost has been.

König let out a long, defeated, sigh that was drowned out by the aircraft's engines. There was only one logical thing he could think to do now: he had to somehow prove himself to show Ghost he wasn't a threat.

It was essential if he wanted his time with 141 to go smoothly—which he really needed considering KorTac had a 𝘭𝘰𝘵 riding on him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were huddled in a small, dark alleyway just behind the designated townhouse. The dozen remaining members of their team fanned around them, keeping their distance to avoid detection while staying close enough to keep in sight, leaving the four men in front.

"Bravo Five, you’ll be entering from the front once we head in through the back. Soap an’ I will take point. König,” The skull-masked man turned and looked straight at the Austrian. “You’ll be in front o’ us. You're on point for getting us inside. Understood?”

Despite having asked if he understood, the pointed look Ghost was giving him spoke a different tone. As if he was challenging him to try and disagree.

König gave a sharp nod, followed by a "Yes, sir," giving full control to the lieutenant, as he was no doubt used to having. There was no reason to try and fight Ghost for leadership; he'd always been a better follower than leader anyway.

Besides, it was far easier to look at the masked man when he was administering orders. Everything in between them—all the strangeness, the odd 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯—seemed to simmer away, the importance of the mission taking charge. There was no reason to disrupt that. Not to mention, this could act as a sign of good faith, proving the Austrian didn’t pose any threat to Ghost's position. It was a win-win.

Seemingly satisfied with that, Ghost tilted his head and spoke into his comm device. “𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘹, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯?”

A moment later Price's voice came through. “𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘉𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦."

"𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘮." Ghost replied, his voice a rumble through the comms.

“Right then, on me,” Ghost ordered, and began creeping towards the back of the building, sticking close to the wall. Soap followed first, tailing close behind him, and König fell in tow. Gaz was on the other side, following the wall, keeping an eye on the house for any suspicious movement.

König let out a quiet breath, his anxieties, muddling thoughts, and nerves disappearing all in one exhale. This mission right here—that was all he had to care about.

They paused, coming up to a wrought iron fence gate with a padlock on it.

“Guess they don’ want visitors, eh?” Soap whispered.

“Maybe you can waltz in there and ‘ave a cup o’ tea after we’re done ere',” Ghost rumbled. “Now focus, Johnny.”

"Always tea with you Brits, huh?"

"I said focus, Johnny."

“Sir, yes, sir,” Soap drawled.

König pulled out a pair of pliers, lining them up with the padlock. The Austrian looked over towards Ghost, waiting for his go ahead.

Ghost gave a nod.

König clamped down the pliers, snapping the padlock wide open and tossed it to the side before opening the gate and moving out of the way.

Ghost and Soap cleared a path to the back door for König, who came to stand directly center to it. Gaz took up position behind him, somewhere to his right.

He could hear voices inside; they seemed calm, completely oblivious to what havoc was about to ensue.

Soap tried the door, wiggling the handle back and forth. He gave a silent shake of his head, confirming it was locked. The Austrian wordlessly looked at the skull-faced man, waiting for his green light.

Ghost tilted his head. "𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘰 𝘚𝘪𝘹, 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳."

"𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵," Price's voice rang through the comms.

"𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘰 𝘍𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦," Ghost spoke through the comms.

"𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬e 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦," Bravo Five responded.

Ghost turned to König. "König, you're clear to go."

König gripped the M4A1 in his hands tightly, pressing the butt up close to his shoulder. He took a step back, giving himself space to get a good walking start to the door. He landed a perfect, devastating kick to the locking mechanism, busting the door wide open and nearly knocking it off its hinges.

“𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭,” Gaz whispered. “Now I know why you're the insertion specialist.”

Soap let out a low exhale. "No fucking kiddin'."

The voices from earlier got louder, alarmed, and footsteps rushed around, readying to fight.

König downed one of the perpetrators waiting on the other side, who charged at him from the kitchen, and shot another in the head as they aimed to shoot him. Blood flowed from the open bullet hole like a sprinkler before the body collapsed lifelessly to the floor.

“Let’s move!” Ghost barked, falling in behind the Austrian. König pushed forward, ducking behind a counter as more shots were fired at him.

He downed two more men, Ghost downed three and Soap and Gaz each downed one. Everyone on all floors surely knew they were there by now, but König didn’t care; he’d gladly take point going up. He was far too lost in the thrill he was getting from the fight, and far too occupied with numbing the instincts that were knocking on his brain, 𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 him to take off on his own, practically begging him to search the whole place and take every single enemy down that crossed his path, consequences be damned.

𝘒𝘰𝘯𝘻𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘬𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘈𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘬𝘶𝘯𝘨^[2] He reminded himself.

“Nicely done, big guy,” Soap said, clapping him on the shoulder. His body tensed, like he had been preparing to be stabbed, far to high on alert to properly dissociate between friend and enemy contact.

“Danke,” König roughly whispered.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side, eh?” Gaz chuckled, coming up on his left and elbowing him gently.

“First floor clear,” Ghost announced. “𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘰 𝘚𝘪𝘹, 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳.

”𝘙𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵," Price cut across the comms.

”Let’s ge’ a move on,” Ghost ordered. He shot König a look and jerked his head towards the stairs. The Austrian wordlessly nodded. He began creeping up the stairs, barely making a sound as the team all filed behind him. They rounded the top of the stairs, everyone spreading out. Soap and Gaz headed off somewhere to the right, while König headed straight, going down the hallway with Ghost on his six.

He came to the first door and took a step back before kicking it open like last time, the door flying off its hinges with ease as they were met with an entourage of bullets and shouts. König quickly ducked to the side.

“Bloody hell,” Ghost said, so quietly that König barely heard it over the sounds of shots being fired. For a moment, he let himself think that Ghost might have been 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥, before he quickly concentrated, wiping out one of the perpetrators waiting on the other side with two shots and hit another in the leg.

Blood gushed from the leg as the guy released a strangled cry and collapsed to the ground. He managed to crawl a few feet towards the bed, trying to get behind it, before Ghost finished him off with two shots to the chest.

The lieutenant quickly moved in, sparing no time, König hot on his heels.

He went over to check the closet as König made his way over to the bathroom. The moment König opened the door, a man lunged at him with a knife. And, without any thought, he reacted with a well-timed grab, snatching the arm the man was wielding the knife in, and with a sharp twist, bent the limb to the side with a sickening crack. Blood spurted out as the bone snapped through the skin. The man opened his mouth, ready to shout out in pain, but in one swift movement, König pulled out his own knife and stabbed him in the throat, making the man's screams nothing but a gurgling sound as his lungs filled with his own blood. He dropped to the ground with a loud 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱. The poor bastard's body twitched once, twice, then finally gave out.

After that, the rest became a blur for König; the only thing he could remember was the continuation of shots, yelling, and bodies dropping as they cleared the remaining floors. Things only became clear when he kicked open one of the last remaining doors on the final floor and aimed his gun, ready to take down whoever was on the other side, only to be met with someone shouting, "No, please! Don't hurt us!" causing him to momentarily freeze.

Instead of coming across an enemy, he came face-to-face with the hostages.

The hostages, who were all huddled in a small bedroom corner, no more than sixteen or possibly seventeen, petrified as they stared at König pointing an assault rifle at them.

The Austrian quickly lowered his gun, feeling his blood run ice cold. "Scheiße," he whispered.

He hadn't realized—

He'd almost—

König took a step forward, immediately regretting it as the kids flinched and tried to shrink away from him.

He took a stuttering breath. 𝘏𝘦 had caused this. He'd been so absorbed in the adrenaline high that he hadn't stopped to think about the hostages, only letting himself be aware of the soldiers in front of him, the feeling of the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the gunshots bolting past him, the blood—

𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵, now wasn't the time. He could think about this later, when he wasn't standing in front of frightened children. When he was left alone in the dark and quiet of his room with nothing but his haunting thoughts replaying every mistake, every bloody action, every life he’s ever taken to keep him company. Never letting him have a moment's rest.

König took a deep breath. "Hey, It's alright, you're safe now," he said, making his voice as gentle and reassuring as possible. Just like his mother used to do for him.

"No, no, stay back! Get away!" A young girl cried. She looked to be about six, huddling close to one of the older teens.

"I— nein," another step forward, "I'm not here to hurt you, I—"

"Get away from her! Take me instead, just leave her alone!" A little boy screamed, rushing in front of the little girl, tears streaming down his face. He stood tall, despite his whole body shaking with fear. He couldn’t have been any older than ten.

It pained König just how much the little boy reminded him of himself when he was younger. Rushing in front of his stepfather, ready to take any hit that was about to come his little brother's way, taking any blame as long as it meant his brother was safe. Too scared to find out what would happen if he didn't.

"I—"

"Hey, hey, it's alright. You're safe with us, I promise," Soap cut in, kneeling down to the little boy's level. He'd come from the doorway, no doubt having heard the shouts and pleas.

"That's right," Gaz joined in, having followed Soap. "König ere' isn't here to hurt you; he's the one who helped take down the bad people. Ain't that right, König?" Gaz asked, glancing back at the Austrian.

"Ja," König said, giving a small nod. His voice, despite his best efforts, was more of a mumble than an affirmation.

"See? You don't have to be scared of him. He's here to protect you, just like we are. I know his mask makes him look scary but he's just a big ol' softy," Soap said, a small smile forming on his face.

"You— you, promise?" The little girl from before asked, still huddled close to one of the older teens who was looking at them with reservation.

"O' course." Soap reassured. "Now, if you just come with—" “No,” The little boy cut in. “You’re lying! You’re no different from them! You ju–”

“Stop it!” the girl shouted, her whole body shaking as tears pooled down her face. “Please, just…,” she looked down to the ground. “Stop,” She finished, her voice barely audible.

The boy looked back at her, his eyes wide with shock. She sniffled, then looked back up at him and said, “They can help us. I want to go with them.” This time her voice was just a tad more even.

“I—” The boy looked to the rest of the group, who all seemed to be in agreement with the little girl. He clenched his fists, then let out a defeated sigh and looked back at Soap. "Y–yeah ok, we’ll follow you," he said.

Soap gave a soft smile as he nodded. "Alright then," The Scotsman stood and walked over to König. "This big guy right ere’ will lead you out." Soap said, clapping him on the shoulder.

König flinched from the contact, his body far too sensitive and sharply tuned to handle it at the moment. He looked back at the group of hostages.

Despite having agreed to come with him he could still see the fear and hesitance in all their eyes. Especially when they looked at the mask.

Sometimes, König’s afraid that others can see through him, that they’ll see the wretched thing hiding behind the windows of his eyes. See what he tries so hard to deny about himself. And as those kids stared at him, at his mask, he couldn’t help but think they saw what he tried so hard to keep out of sight.

He gave a small nod of confirmation to Soap before beginning to lead the hostages outside.

On his way out, he caught the lieutenant staring at him, his expression as unreadable as ever, though König could swear his gaze seemed even colder than it normally did. Almost as if he were annoyed by something. For once, though, König found he was too exhausted to care.

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Ghost watched as König exited the townhouse, his eyes glued to the Austrian. Off to the right near the side of the house Soap and Gaz were talking with the human trafficking victims. He couldn't hear what was being said but from the relaxed body language the victims were exhibiting he could tell Johnny was being his usual self, brightening the room and making everyone feel comfortable and safe.

König stood near one of the SUVs they'd used to get from the plane to the designated townhouse that was just raided. He was mostly still. No tense shoulders. No twitching. No glove fiddling. Not even a single glance around his surroundings like he was waiting to be attacked. He was relaxed.

𝘈𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 "𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵" 𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦" 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥.

The description from König's file found its way into Ghost's memory. At first he'd found it hard to imagine, but after what he'd witnessed today, it didn't seem so out of reach.

He'd watched him, amidst the commotion, break a man’s neck and almost take his entire head off with his bare hands, then stab another in the throat that had attempted to sneak up behind him with zero thought or hesitation. It was like witnessing a switch in the Austrian's brain being flipped.

The way his eyes seemed to glaze over, almost as if the spark of life and emotion had been sucked out and replaced with two empty dark abysses. Like a man possessed, no longer in control of his own consciousness, instead having something else take his place. Something inhuman. Something 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴.

That look made the hairs on the back of Ghost’s neck and arms stand on end, made his fingers twitch with the need to reach for his knife, gun, for 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 to eliminate the threat in front of him.

It wasn’t just König’s eyes that bothered the skull-masked man, but the way König did things as well. The way he rammed his body into doors and walls as though he were made of steel rather than frangible flesh and bone like no barrier fazed him, it was more inhumane than violent. Almost unreal.

He wiped out the enemy quickly. Messily, too. But the one thing Ghost could say without feeling as though he should be preparing himself for the other shoe to drop was that König never once faltered, and he constantly checked in with them, making sure no one was hurt. And as much as Ghost hated to admit it, it had helped ease the anger the Austrian made him feel with every action, no matter how small.

Ghost would even say that seeing him perform in action was almost impressive; the way the other man turned himself into nothing short of a battering machine.

If only he didn’t feel so 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺 about it all, then maybe he could even respect the Austrian, if only a little bit.

After all, other than his brutal terminations, there was nothing he did that was wrong or out of place. In fact, he did everything perfectly—he’d admit to himself, and himself only, that they actually benefited from having König today. That thought alone pissed him off, of course; knowing there was nothing he could use to bring Price to finally get the Austrian sent home—to get him to stop haunting his every damn waking moment.

It completely baffled him how someone so quiet and seemingly drawn into themselves could turn into something so different. How they could throw themselves into a door like a bulldozer, tearing it down from its hinges with little hesitation or difficulty.

And then, there was the conversation he had with Soap the previous night—the Scotsman hadn’t been happy to hear that he was concerned with him being around König. Soap even told him that he needed to give the other a chance, because "it wasn’t his fault he was assigned here", and "he was just socially awkward", and "a feeling isn't a good enough reason to treat someone like an outcast", etc., etc.

And Ghost agreed with Soap to a certain extent. He wasn't faulting the Austrian for his presence here or for anything that he has no control over like 'social anxiety'. Soap just didn't understand it was entirely something else. That his feeling wasn't just some feeling. It was a sensation one could only describe as bone-deep, etching its way under his skin. Constantly hovering around him reminding him that there was something different about the Austrian, something 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨.

And the fact that no one else had picked up on what he was feeling was quite astonishing to him. He was sure that, given time, at least Soap would begin to see what he was seeing. There was only so long someone could be oblivious to the obvious hazard signs flashing in front of them before they got burned.

Ghost only hoped he could be there for Johnny to make sure he didn’t completely crash and burn along with the Austrian when he did finally see the truth.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they all stepped off of the transport, König trailing behind everyone else, Soap began to fall back in his step to get closer to the Austrian.

Ghost, who he'd been walking with, looked over his shoulder, watching him with an almost accusatory stare, as he got closer and closer.

Soap bit his tongue, feeling a low simmering under his skin, a familiar feeling. Anger. Defensiveness.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦?

He understood Ghost was concerned, and he knew where the concern was coming from; he really did, but he was sure Ghost was blowing things out of proportion. He hadn’t felt weird about König at all, and still had yet to, and until he did, he wasn’t going to let Ghost’s opinions affect his own actions towards König.

Like them, König didn't have any say in where he was sent or how long he had to stay.

He was already at a disadvantage, essentially a foreigner forced to live within 141’s walls. There was no reason to make him feel worse.

And if something 𝘥𝘪𝘥 happen, he’d give Ghost the glory of having been right all along, but until then, he wasn't going to treat the Austrian like an intruder; no matter how much Ghost wanted him to.

"Hey, Konig," Soap said, finally falling in line with the Austrian's steps. König looked up from the ground and turned to face him. "How do you feel bout' going to that pub I mentioned yesterday? I figure it would be the perfect time to get drinks and celebrate your first mission with the 141."

König’s posture stiffened. "Oh, uh,” He hadn’t been expecting Soap to ask him to hang out off base so soon. At least not in the present sense instead of a near future one.

Honestly he’d already forgotten about his little deal to go drinking with Soap. And somewhere deep down he knew he had been silently hoping the Scotsman would forget too. Still he had to say 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨; he couldn’t just keep staring at Soap.

“Ja,” König finally forced out. “I would be glad to go with you, Soap."

"You sure? I don' wanna force ya to do anythin' ya don't want to. If yer too tired to go just say so. I'll understand if you wanna go some other time."

"Nein, it's alright. I'm willing to go if you want to," König said, and Soap would like to think the small crinkle to the corner of the Austrians eyes after he spoke was an indicator he was giving him a small smile.

Soap grinned. He could tell from a mile away the moment they met that the other was a quiet one, and the fact that König was right there, willing to go with him and head out of his comfort zone, was a huge sign that Ghost was wrong about whatever he thought of König.

"Brilliant," Soap said. "Meet ya at the rec room in ten." And with that, the Scotsman quickly made his way towards base, leaving König to watch as he walked away, feeling a familiar tug of nervousness start to settle in.

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König paused outside the quaint little pub, its sign adorned with a glowing green shamrock and faded yellow lettering. It seemed like a nice place, just like Soap said it would be, yet he couldn’t help how his heart rate picked up when he saw how many people were inside, becoming acutely aware of the knot in the pit of his stomach.

His hands were shoved into his hoodies pockets, fisted into balls so tight he was sure his nails would break the skin on his palms.

Why were there so many people there?

He bit the inside of his cheek, taking a deep breath as he tried to calm his nerves (not wanting to alert Soap of his growing panic). He heard the sound of an engine picking up and slightly turned his head to see the taxi they’d arrived in pulling away, leaving them stranded on the sidewalk unless they hailed another one. There was no escape. Not unless he wanted to make a run for it. Which, he could do, but then he'd be left looking like a pathetic coward in front of Soap.

𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦.

He wanted to run—𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 to run. This was all too much, he simply couldn't do it. It was all a giant mistake, a severe lap in judgement. He would surely stand out too much. Attract too much attention. He was too tall and big to be able to walk in there without thousands of eyes locking onto him like a missile pinpointing its target. He had to tell Soap he was leaving. The Sergeant seemed like an understanding guy, surely he would understand—

Soap reached for the door and pulled it open before König could find the words to object. The cheerful sounds of people chatting, subdued music, and the smell of food washed over him. Something most would find inviting only making him want to run even more.

König quickly glanced around and took in every detail he could about his new environment. The pub was pleasantly dim, with mini lights hanging over individual tables and booths, people of all ages gathered around, laughing and talking while drinking beers.

There were couples scattered around entwined in deep conversations, some with their arms around each other and looking into each other's eyes as if there was no one else in the room.

Families hunkered down in booths enjoying a night out together, laughing and joking and trading stories, as if nobody else in the world mattered to them.

A few groups of friends talking and catching up on the latest news, clinking glasses in toast and just generally having a good time at the bar.

A few tables in the back, occupied by regulars who stopped by a few times a week for a drink and a nice chat after work. The sharp sound of laughter as jokes were exchanged and the ocassional boo of rage at a players performance on the TV playing a sports game.

And on a small stage at the far end of the room, there was a band playing some soulful jazz music, uptempo rhythms and the occasional bluesy solo, seemingly locked in a trance, caught up in the music.

Some of the tension eased out of König. It wasn’t as loud as he expected. The bands music wasn’t overpowering and the people…they were kind and paid no mind to the two soldiers who forced the bell to jingle as they opened the door and let the mid-afternoon air in. Well, there were a few who threw a few curious glances König’s way, no doubt because of his height and the mask, but they rather quickly went back to their own business.

“Hey…,” Soap reached his hand out and took König’s hoodie sleeve where his forearm was, lightly tugging. “There’s a table in the corner, right over by tha' window over there,” he pointed to the very back of the pub to the right of the bars counter.

Tight, secluded, slightly shrouded in shadow with only one other table close by, left completely unoccupied for the moment. König could push his back into the corner to shrink himself down and look out the hazy window shrouded by the evening fog if he needed to collect himself. Close to the back exit if he had to retreat from the surrounding crowd. It was suspiciously perfect.

“That works,” he mumbled, anxiety practically oozing off of him.

“Hey,” Soap turned to him, brows furrowed with a small frown. A look of concern. “Are you sure you’re up for this? We can always leave,” Soap said, voice filled with understanding.

König shook his head.

As much as he wanted to go back to the base, he remembered the kicked puppy dog look Soap had when he’d thought he was going to say no the very first time he’d asked if he wanted to go. And König remembered just how much he’d hated that look.

“Nein, I am alright. Just…”

“Nervous?” Soap finished for him.

“Ja,” König nodded his head, his cheeks warming.

“Well then, it's a good thing I’m right ere' beside ya an' ain't goin' nowhere.” Soap grinned.

König nodded again, not confident enough that his voice would come out evenly. He’s sure leading a blind and deaf man through a landmine may have been easier than getting him to actually move.

If patience was a saint, his name was Johnny MacTavish.

“Come on. The food’s well worth it, I promise,” Soap lightly urged.

König swallowed heavily.

He could do this.

He’d agreed to do this.

He would do this.

He 𝘩𝘢𝘥 to do this.

Soap’s been nothing but kind to him since he’d shown up to T.F. 141. This was the least he could do. He just had to act like this was any other time he made his way through the cafeteria or when Horangi would drag him to a bar: take a deep breath, keep his head low, and force his way through.

Taking a deep breath, König took a step past the threshold. He kept his eyes glued to the carpeted, ugly shade of maroon, floor as they made it to the table, and instantly sat down the moment the chair was in reach, shrinking himself into the corner as best he could.

Soap’s chair scraped against the floor as he sat down causing König to lightly flinch; his senses too revved up at the moment. He hated himself for it and hated Soap's following concern more.

“You ok?” Soap asked, his voice too soft. It was as if he was some child needing consoling. He wasn't. He was a grown man who was just being pathetic.

“Ja, sorry.”

Soap gave him a curious look. “Huh, what are you apologizing for?”

“I, uh, I’ve been dampening the mood,” König said quietly. He tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he swallowed dryly. Was it just him or was it really hot in here?

“Wha do you mean?”

König bit his tongue. Was Soap really going to make him say it?

“I, uh, took too long to sit down,” he clarified, feeling his cheeks warm under the hood. Gott, why did he have to be so awkward?

Soap scoffed. “Nonsense, you’re perfectly fine. Anyway, what do you drink?”

“Ah, anything is fine…”

“Right, then.” Soap said and stood to get them some drinks. König wanted to reach out and tell him not to go, but he held his tongue and forced his hand to stay on his leg. He had no right to ask Soap to stay. And he's already been more of a nuisance than the Sergeant deserved to put up with. It wasn’t long before Soap came back and sat down anyway.

The moment Soap set his drink down, König immediately lifted his hood just enough to take a sip while keeping his face covered, and downed two-thirds of it in one go. He’d never been much of a drinker, but if he was going to get through the night he was going to need the liquid courage.

Perhaps he should start getting prescribed anxiety meds again?

Oh, who was he kidding? That wasn't an option—not really. Even as a child he'd only had them for three years before they became too expensive. Not to mention that during that time they'd hardly helped. Instead, they only made him feel like even more of an outcast. And in the military something as silly as anxiety meds would only lead to ridicule and distrust. A hassle far from worth it.

When he looked back over to Soap he noticed the Scotsman smiling at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“So, this is how the night’s shaping up, eh?” Soap grinned. “I’m all for it. Let’s get absolutely hammered, aye?”

He lifted his glass of scotch. König felt his cheeks warm even more at the fool he’d made himself out to be. Still, to not further embarrass himself, he raised his glass and tucked his chin down in a solemn nod. He clicked his glass against the rim of Soap’s yet couldn't look him in the eye.

“Cheers, mate!”

“Zum Wohl!"

König savored the next sip, crisp and invigorating, the slight tingle the beer brought on was immediate, spreading through his hands and up his arms. The first sip was like a gentle hug, the cold liquid flowing down his throat and settling in his chest. It was rich and comforting, like wrapping himself in a thick, cozy blanket on a chilly night. It brought on a warmth that continued to spread, reaching every part of him, making him feel relaxed and at home.

Soap set his scotch down with a satisfied 𝘢𝘩, and leaned his elbows on the table, his arms crossed atop one another as he turned to look out the window, face shifting from content to longing. “Man, I wish I had my sketch book…,” he whispered under his breath.

“You draw?” König asked, interest piqued. He hadn’t gotten the chance to learn all too much about Soap’s personal interests yet, and for some reason he found himself actually wanting to know more about the Sergeant.

“Oh, yeah, I doodle ere’ n there. M’ not a Picasso or anythin’ though.” The Scotsman shrugged, a slight embarrassed blush spreading across his cheeks.

“What do you like to draw?”

“People, mostly. Sometimes animals, too.”

“Ah, I see,” The Austrian said, nodding his head. He hadn’t picked the Sergeant to be the artsy type, but somehow it seemed to fit him anyway.

“If yer interested, I can show ya some of them sometime,” Soap offered.

“Oh, ja. I would like that.”

Soap grinned. “Alright then, it’s a plan. Anythin’ else ya wanna ask me?” He leaned in closer, a smirk forming across his face.

König started to fiddle with his fingers, his hands conjoining in front of him. “What, uh, what else do you like to do here? When you have free time?” He asked, idly picking at a callous on his palm, his voice getting quieter at the end.

“Hmmm,” Soap hummed. “I definitely enjoy fishing, though no one around ere' seems to understand the beauty of it. I also fancy playing some card games. Board games too.” König nodded his head before taking a sip of beer.

“Wha' bout' you?” Soap asked.

“What about me?”

“Come on,” Soap said, an impish smile making its way across his face. “you can’t expect to ask me all these questions and not have a few of my own.”

“Oh, uh,” König swallowed and set his drink back down on the table. “What do you want to know?”

Soap took a moment to think, no doubt having millions of questions, taking a sip of his own drink before asking, “Wha' do you like to do in your free time?”

“I like to read when I can,” König said, not putting much thought into his answer. He never did much in his free time anymore, but when he did, he always enjoyed having a good read.

Soap nodded his head and clicked his tongue. “If you’re interested, there's a lounge with a pretty nice bookshelf you can read from. Not many bookworms round ere’ besides from you, an' L.T., so you’ll have it all to yourself pretty much.”

“Oh, uh, danke.” König said, slowly starting to relax and lean back in his chair, a small smile forming under his hood as he continued chatting with Soap.

Six drinks later and they were slightly buzzed with no food in their stomachs to help mellow out the alcohol. Well, König was slightly buzzed. Soap suprisingly seemed to be fine. His only indicator he was being effected by the alcohol was a slight tint to his cheeks and a sudden over expression of body movement. Like right now.

Soap leaned forward, far further than he needed to, and studied König, the way an artist would scrutinize a model. König played ignorant to Soap's watchful gaze, taking small sips of his drink here and there while watching as Soap digested every detail he could see of him in his casual wear. He was still wearing his mask of course, but managed to change into a plain black zip-up hoodie with jeans before meeting with Soap to leave.

“I coul’ draw you, if you’d like.” Soap said after a moment. König choked on his drink and almost slammed it on the table.

Draw him?

Soap wanted to draw 𝘩𝘪𝘮?

“You can say no, m’ just tryin’ to add to my collection,” the Scotsman added quickly, not wanting to make König feel like he had to do anything. It was just a silly little thought that popped to his head that he hadn’t been able to stop from slipping out.

“I appreciate it,” König slumped, “but I have a hard time staying still.” A nasty little habit he’ll never get rid of. (He’s tried before.)

“That’s a'right, I’m sure you coul' read somethin' to help distract you if ya wanted,” Soap suggested, a small glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Well, König 𝘩𝘢𝘴 stayed still when reading before…perhaps he could be still enough for Soap to draw him. The thought of the other man taking the time to study him and sketch him out made his heart thud at a nervous tempo—nobody’s ever drawn him before.

After internally battling with himself, weighing all the pros and cons, he decided to just go with it. Might as well go for the experience if it’s being offered. You only live once, right?

“Alright,” he agreed.

Soap grinned. “Bloody brilliant.” He said. Then, like someone switched a switch, Soap groaned and flopped his head down, hitting the table with a thump. König flinched at the sudden action. “Dammit…,” Soap mumbled. “Now I really wish I had my sketchbook.”

“Oh,” König glanced around, unsure of what to do. He still wasn’t very good with social cues. Thankfully, he noticed their waiter coming over with the food they had ordered a little while ago when they were on their second round. “Uh, the food’s here,” König pointed out.

Soap immediately shot up, doing a whole one-eighty on the personality scale.

“Oh, finally!” He clapped his hands together. “Been waiting for ages.”

“Here you fine gentlemen are,” The waiter said, setting down the plates and another round of drinks with the eagerly awaited meal. König switched to a simple soda, not all that eager to keep downing alcohol at the moment, and Soap to a cheaper scotch.

“Thanks, mate.” Soap said.

Meanwhile, with his head muddled faster than he’d liked, König didn’t waste any time attacking the bread on his plate; he needed something in his stomach to help soak up the alcohol.

Soap didn’t waste any time either, digging into his burger, a nice thick patty, with melted cheese, bacon, and a mound of crunchy onion rings on the side. They fell into silence, until Soap looked up and grunted in surprise.

“König, it isn’t goin’ to go no where y'know. It’s already dead. Ain't just gonna get up an' snort at ya before trotting away.”

Pork chop steak halfway to his mouth, König paused and looked down at his plate. By the time Soap had eaten a few bites, König had devoured nearly half of his meal, which consisted of a pork chop steak grilled to perfection served with a creamy cheese sauce, roasted potatoes cooked with herbs and garlic, and some grilled mushrooms with a piece of bread on the side to help absorb the alcohol faster.

He stuffed the chunk of Pork into his mouth, taking a sip of his drink. He felt his cheeks warm from embarrassment as he swallowed and looked back to Soap.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Soap chuckled. “I’m just messin with you König.”

“Oh."

Soap chuckled again, a grin spreading across his face. “Alright, ere’, try a bite of this. An' don’t inhale it, ya damn vacuum,” he joked.

König hesitantly looked at the sandwich offered from Soap. “C’mon, it won’t bite ya,” Soap urged.

König looked up to Soap, then back to the burger, and slowly reached out to take the burger from Soap’s awaiting hands. He lifted his mask away from his face, just enough to make room to eat but still allowing his face to be hidden from view, and took a bite, his tongue darting out to chase the delectable grease that dripped down his lip. He took his time chewing, enjoying the unexpected offering. Soap watched him, an odd glimmer in his eyes. Amuesment and a subtle delight at seeing this beast of a man now literally eating from his hand. Well, sort of.

“It’s good,” König murmured sheepishly. He handed the burger back to Soap and then looked back down at his own plate.

Might as well return the favor. It was only polite, right? He raised his hand, a piece of pork pinned to his fork, and cocked his shoulder. A silent question if Soap wanted a piece of his food in return.

Soap responded with a mischievous smirk before opening his mouth wide. König’s eyes widened slightly, surprised that the Sergeant wasn’t just taking the fork himself but decided to indulge in Soap’s little game.

His movements were clumsy and uncertain as he placed the food on Soap's waiting tongue. And he had expected Soap to take the fork from him the moment he placed the meat, but instead he grabbed onto his wrist and shut his mouth around the fork, whisking his tongue around before slowly pulling back, taking his sweet time, never once looking away from König’s eyes.

König swallowed hard. He didn’t know why he hadn’t ripped his hand away instantly, but figured it was the alcohol slowing his brain's reaction time down.

“Mm, not bad,” Soap chuckled with a wink. “A bit dry though.”

He reached over and took a sip of his nearly gone drink and downed it with a pleased hum. Like nothing had happened. Like he didn’t just cause König’s brain to short circuit as he stared at him with hooded eyes filled with mischievousness. And maybe to him, nothing did. Something König’s been quickly learning about Soap was that he likes to tease and joke around a 𝘭𝘰𝘵. Chances are that little transaction was just one big tease. No real meaning behind it other than to mess around.

After all, there was no way he could have actually meant anything else by it. He was with Ghost, from what König had been able to gather so far.

Maybe Soap didn’t usually go 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 far to joke around, but perhaps, like König, the alcohol was messing with his brain. Yeah, that’s all it was. The alcohol mixed with Soap’s naturally teasing personality.

Who knows, maybe Soap was like this even when not tipsy. König certainly wouldn’t know the Sergeant well enough to say.

Still, despite knowing all this, König couldn’t help the way his mouth suddenly felt dry or how his heart beated wildly in his chest. The rest of his drink was downed in a couple of gulps. He motioned to the bartender for another, this time alcohol.

“Make it two,” Soap held his hand up for one as well.

Rolling with it now, the drinks kept flowing. Probably more than there should have been, but at that point König could have cared less. Thanks to his size he technically did have a much higher tolerance than the average person anyway. The night waned on. Along the way König had stopped drinking, instead taking to just watching as Soap downed drinks and gossiped about the 141. Most of the pub had cleared out, with only a couple patrons spread throughout. The band was long gone. In their absence, the remaining bartender turned the radio behind the bar on low, some sort of soothing lo-fi playing.

“A-an' an'ther whon,” Soap slurred, setting his drink down on the table like he was taking shots. It was possible Soap thought he was at this point. It already surprised König how the Sergeant seemed to have such a high tolerance despite his size, and with him constantly throwing them back the whole night, it made sense he was far past his limit.

Soap beckoned for two more drinks, and once they were ready staggered over to grab them instead of letting their waiter bring them over.

König steadied the Sergeant as he came back to sit down, feeling the jut of Soap’s hipbone and inhaling the scent of his regulation soap mixed with paper and graphite, a hint of hair gel to it. It was an oddly comforting smell that just seemed to fit the Sergeant perfectly.

Soap gave a mumbled “thanks" and sat down. Then raised his glass, the liquid shining through with pale flecks of glitter as he pressed the other to König’s hand.

“Cheers,” He said.

“Cheers,” König echoed, tapping the bottom of his glass against Soap’s. The other’s grin was immediate, slightly lopsided and made more severe by the tilt of his head. Something twisted in the pit of König’s stomach, his breath catching on the awkward line of ribs broken and healed one too many times. He couldn’t look away as Soap tipped his head back to take a drink, his tongue pressing against the rim of the glass, pink and wet.

Soap let out a pleased hum, setting his drink down on the table. His gaze lingered on König’s hand, sliding up to the faded line of a jagged scar. His frown always reminded König of a puppy, dark eyes made pitiful beneath drawn brows, the genuine sense of bewilderment at why the universe hadn’t fallen into place because he’d like it to.

“You’re not joinin' me?” Soap asked.

He could say no. He’d been silently watching Soap drink since about an hour ago, swapping the beer Soap would order him with the empty glass Soap had finished whenever the Scots attention turned away from him.

It felt easier than trying to explain the nerves that twisted through his stomach, the wire that curled around his tongue and rendered him shaking and speechless and disgusted with himself when he lost himself to the booze. Or how it made him feel like he was becoming his mother with no sense of control.

His tolerance was still high, which was why he had let himself get carried away earlier in the day, but now that he had just a bit more than a buzz he couldn’t bring himself to continue keeping pace with Soap.

Still, one more drink couldn’t hurt. As long as it made that pout disappear then it was worth it.

“I am,” König said. He brought his hand up, lifted his mask just enough, and felt the slow sinking slide of the cool beverage gliding down his throat. “It’s good.”

“See?” Soap said and leaned closer, the chair creaking and shifting as he braced his whole weight to the front. “D’you want an'ther?”

It was a torment crafted especially for König, some exquisitely handcrafted punishment from one spiteful deity or another. He shook his head. “Nein, I am good. I do think you should stop drinking though, Soap.” König said. He was sure the Sergeant was going to have a nasty hangover tomorrow.

“An' why’s tha'?” Soap asked, a frown settling across his features as he tilted his head to the side.

König shifted in his seat as he glanced to the side. “You’ve um, had a lot to drink is all.”

“Ah, haud yer wheesht!” Soap said, much louder than necessary, drawing a few eyes from the pedestrians scattered around. “Im’ nah drunk,” He continued, much more quieter this time, his speach slightly slurred.

“I—” König glanced around. What was he supposed to do now? He guessed there was alway the option to just leave Soap there and head back to base. No. That wasn’t an option, not really. Surely he could find a way to convince Soap it was time to go. But how—

“Excuse me gentleman,” a voice spoke up. König whipped his head over to the direction the voice came from, seeing their waiter from earlier. “Not to be rude but we will be closing shortly. I just thought I would let you know so you’d have time to gather your things,” the waiter finished, throwing a small wink in König’s direction. The Austrian gave a silent nod of thanks. He remembered the sign outside saying this place was open twenty-four-hours, so it was obvious the waiter had noticed his distress and took pity on him.

“Aye, if tha’s th'case we’ll be leavin' then. Thank you an'–an' all tha’,” Soap said, clearly too drunk to remember this place didn’t have a closing time.

Soap turned to König. “You’re just down the corridor from me, yeah?” Soap stood before König could answer. “I’ll wal' you to yer room,” He continued, and flashed König a wide grin.

König didn’t say it’d be him walking Soap home as he moved next to the other, every step measured and quiet. The argument wouldn’t be one he’d win even as he carefully started to herd Soap towards the door, blocking the instinctive turn towards the bar.

He expected the arm Soap slinged around his shoulders at the first breath of cold and rainy air but the tremor that ran through him was a surprise. He catched it, somewhere in the middle of his spine, and masked it as nothing more than a slight shiver from the breeze.

He hailed a taxi as one came into view and helped Soap get all his limbs inside before getting in himself.

“You’re a sweet lad, König,” Soap mumbled, leaning into the Austrian, putting most of his body weight against him, nothing but a jumble of scotch-soaked limbs.

König didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to tell Soap that he wasn't good. That he was just a monster hiding in plain sight. That everything he thought about him was wrong and he should—

König let out a small exhale. Now wasn't the time. He’d think about this later, in the quiet of his room, in the hush of blankets pulled over his head and his mask peeled off so he could feel the warmth of his breath condense against his skin along with everything else he's been ignoring throughout the day.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, the flashes of streetlights shining through the windows, illuminating the quiet space now and again as König’s stomach twisted in nerves. It didn't take long for them to arrive back at the base.

Once they did, König helped Soap towards the building, the gravel crunching beneath their boots as they walked in uneven stumbling unison.

His palms grew cold, a sweat breaking out beneath his mask as his breath grew shallower, the whistle of an incoming bomb growing louder in his ears as they approached Soap’s room and what man lurked behind those doors.

After what felt like centuries, König finally came to stand in front of Ghost’s door, just as imposing as the man behind it. He felt the need to run, like he was about to be hunted down by a predator lurking somewhere in the shadows.

“This is me,” Soap said. He unraveled his arm from around König’s shoulders and took a step forward, only to hiccup and be sent swaying so haphazardly that König had to grab at his elbows to keep him upright.

Soap grinned at him. “Thanks, big guy.”

König breathed out slowly, the final release of breath as he looked down the barrel of the gun that would surely be the end of him. At that grin as bright as the sun, holding nothing but warmth, acting as a beacon that seemed to draw König in like a bug, only he could never reach it.

Soap turned his head away from him, his grin growing even brighter. "Hey L.T.," he said, and steadied himself before taking a step towards the now-open door.

König froze.

How had he not heard the door open?

Slowly, he looked up, coming face to face with the familiar skull mask that has been haunting him since he arrived a day ago. Ghost wasn’t looking at him, the dark shimmer of his eyes turned definitively towards Soap, searching him from head to toe. Almost like he thought the Sergeant was going to come back bruised and broken or not at all.

König ignored the familiar irritation threatening to claw its way up at that thought, instead focusing on a slight bruise he noticed over the top of Ghost’s hip where his shirt was slightly raised, no doubt from the mission earlier, a deep purple beginning to bleed into a sickening mottled green, and König’s hip twinged in silent furious sympathy. Cuts heal, broken bones mend, bruises linger.

“He behave himself?” Ghost asked, voice a rumble.

König straightened, his eyes shooting up to meet the lieutenant's gaze that was now familiarly set on him, ice cold as ever, feeling his spine click into place.

König swallowed. “Mostly.”

Ghost gave a small hum. “Hear that, Johnny,” Ghost mumbled, turning to face the Sergeant. “Mostly well-behaved.”

“I’m always well behaved, Si,” Soap shot back, a defensive yet teasing tone to his voice before he moved and slumped into the lieutenant's shoulder. He said something else, but König couldn't make it out as it was muffled in Ghost's shirt. Although he could swear he saw some of the ice melt away from the lieutenant's gaze from whatever it was Soap said before slightly relaxing. König on the other hand, quickly stiffened, the last half of the Sergeant’s sentence finally registering. The way he had said that one syllable made it feel much more intimate than it should’ve been.

𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦? König silently questioned and immediately felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. He wasn’t supposed to hear that. Ghost’s name was just that, 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵. It wasn’t something he was meant to know, something he was privileged—no, 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 enough to know.

“Sure you are, Johnny,” Ghost responded, wrapping an arm around the Sergeant’s waist to steady him. He looked back to König, the slight warmth to his eyes immediately disappearing.

König shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I uh, I should be going. Goodnight, sir,” König said, hating how weak his voice came across before he quickly made his retreat.

He didn’t look back as he made his way down the corridor towards his own room, even as the skin on the back of his neck prickled beneath the weight of Ghost’s unseen gaze.

Chapter Text

A quiet feeling of terror filled his lungs like water, choking off any attempt to draw oxygen back in. He couldn't see; everything was pitch black around him. There was nothing—no noise, not even the sound of his own breathing—that is, if he was breathing. He couldn't tell; everything felt hazy, like he was engulfed in fog.

𝘊𝘰𝘭𝘥. It was cold.

He wanted to run, but every attempt to move, even the slightest, was stopped. It was almost like an invisible force was rooting him to the ground, chaining him down like he was some kind of wild animal.

"𝘕𝘰, 𝘯𝘰, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺!” A voice cried, nothing but pure fear evident in its tone as it echoed across the void. It was familiar. Where had he heard that voice before?

He looked around, trying to spot where the voice was coming from, but there was nothing. Just the black void surrounding him, empty and hollow, cold and filled with static.

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪? He tried to ask, but his chest felt like it was crushing in on him, and no matter how much he opened his mouth, all that came out was dead air, like every breath was being stolen away from him by the void. The void that was once again eerily silent. No voice, no panic, just silence.

"𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳! 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦!” Another voice echoed; this one was familiar as well. Only this time he recognized it. It hadn’t taken him any more than a few seconds to pinpoint where he'd heard it from. It was the boy. The one he’d frightened, the one who had reminded him of himself. Who he’d nearly—

𝘽𝙕𝙕𝙕𝙕𝙏

“Ya comin’ big guy?” Another voice broke through, it was cheerful, almost too optimistic, with a slightly British accent.

The Sergeant?

What happened to the boy? He was just there, was he not? He'd heard his voice somewhere and heard the panic he'd caused that reminded him of the nightmares he surely was going to cause that boy for the rest of his life, all because he couldn’t stay focused.

𝙋𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙘. He thought. That’s all he was. A pathetic creature who only existed to serve and follow orders. And yet he couldn’t even do that right.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘥, 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨,” Soap’s voice spoke up again, this time it felt more heartfelt, soft even.

𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙄’𝙫𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙚. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙧𝙪𝙣. 𝙍𝙪𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚.

𝙍𝙪𝙣.

𝙍𝙪𝙣.

𝙍𝙐𝙉.

𝘽𝙕𝙕𝙕𝙕𝙏

“𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵,” One of his old teamates said. It was one from a past PMC he’d worked for.

“𝘕𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯. 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯, 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘺?”

That’s right. He’s a monster. He should have held back.

“𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥. 𝘎𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳.”

𝖬𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋. That word, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 words echoed in his mind like a haunting mantra—

𝘔𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳.

“𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺!”

𝘔𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳.

“𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬!”

𝘔𝘖𝘕𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙.

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦!?”

𝘔𝘖𝘕𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙.

“𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳!”

𝙈𝙊𝙉𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍—

König jolted awake, his body shaking. He lay there, eyes wide, gasping for breath and gripping the sheets in a vice-like grip. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat already dripping from his forehead. He felt like he was completely paralyzed, unable to think, to feel, to do anything.

The familiar, dreadful feeling he could never escape of a lack of air in his lungs suddenly hit him, and he cursed, closing his eyes as he took in deep, steadying breaths like he’s practiced countless times—𝘖𝘯𝘦, 𝘵𝘸𝘰, 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯, 𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘵𝘸𝘰, 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵.

See, it was funny that he sat there, feeling like there wasn’t enough air in the world for him when there was. It was funny because, even though he felt like he was using up his oxygen reserves and was about to die, the whole time, he was 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦. He hadn’t been stabbed in the lung and was now fighting against the clock to breathe or being drowned in water. No, he had just had a dream. One measly little dream. Something that wasn’t even new to him.

Since he was a child, he’s had what most would consider nightmares. One of the ones he remembered best was shortly after his father left. His head had hurt. It was a dull pain, an insistent throb in tune with his heartbeat. The floorboards had creaked under his weight, every noise only making the pain grow sharper.

He’d shakily lifted a hand and gingerly turned the doorknob to his bedroom, pushing the heavy wooden door open and tensing as the hinges screeched in protest.

He’d turned to his brother, eyes squinting to see through the night haze, praying he was still asleep. Thankfully, the two-year-old hadn’t moved a muscle, still snoring soundly in bed.

His eyes had stung with tears, and his cheeks were red and raw, much like they were now. He was, no, 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 is a crier—as much as he hated to admit it. And no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop himself from letting the tears fall.

Whenever he would try to bottle it up, it would always just result in the floodgates bursting open stronger than if he’d just let himself cry in the first place. He cried when angry, cried when sad, and cried when he was scared.

And, oh, had he felt scared.

He’d had a nightmare, and thankfully for him, it had been one of his silent ones. The ones where he woke up in a cold sweat, bedsheets gripped between his fists, his heart jackhammering in his ribcage. He didn’t want to think about how the last one had woken his brother, causing him to panic and cry out for their mom. Their mom, who would always tell him, "It's ok, liebling” or "It's alright to be scared”. His mom, who was always so sweet and understanding and never judgmental or upset when he woke her up because he needed her to remind him everything was ok, was everything his father wasn’t.

His father was not an understanding man. Unlike the kind words his mother would whisper to him in the dark or the sweet lullabies she would sing, his father would always scold him, saying, “𝘉𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘺” or “𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴?”.

His father had been gone that night, though. Had been gone for a while, actually. He’d left them in the middle of the night and never came back, leaving him to be the man of the household.

It was probably a good thing that he hadn’t been there that night to see him cry and to see how he felt so much shame and anger at himself for being so scared over a “dream” that he couldn’t even stop the tears. That he couldn’t even be the man. Much like right now, twenty-something years later. A grown adult who had to remind himself to breathe.

𝘐𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘐𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵, he repeated like those three words were his lifeline. “You are fine.” He muttered after his breathing finally slowed. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮—𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺.

𝘽𝙕𝙕𝙕𝙕𝙏

König tensed, his eyes snapping open as he whipped his head around to face his nightstand. His phone screen sat illuminated for a few seconds next to the alarm clock before returning to its familiar black screen. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

For a moment, König contemplated just ignoring the damn thing before he sighed and reached for his phone. He held it above his face for a second, staring at its black screen—or more accurately, the small reflection of himself in it.

He could see the red rims under his eyes and the slight glistening of tear tracks on his now-puffed cheeks. He let out a 𝘵𝘤𝘩 before clicking the power button and unlocking his screen. In the bottom corner, he saw a little number three notification on top of his messages app. He clicked on it.

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
Hey, I just got back from my mission. Be heading to the room soon
3:03

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
Just heard you got transferred to T.F. 141
3:23

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
What’s that like?
3:23

König stared at the messages for a moment. The last one was sent about a minute or two ago.

𝗞𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
The base is as big as you said it was
3:25

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
I knew it! They have the fancy lights that turn off and on at certain times and showers with actual water temperature too???
3:25

𝗞𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
Yes
3:25

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
Fucking unfair
3:25

König felt himself relax a little bit, imagining the Korean letting out a ruff chuff of air with his usual bitter face—his lips pressed together so tight they almost disappeared, his brow knitted in a perpetual frown, and his eyes nothing but two little slits.

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
You doing ok over there?
3:25

The Austrian smiled to himself. If there was one thing he missed about KorTac, it was Horangi.

He was quite picky with whom he liked to keep close, although “close” to him practically meant arm’s length, but that was beside the point. The point was that Horangi had managed to be a part of those few König’s chosen to keep close. It was only natural that he and the Korean began to talk, with them sharing a room and all, and from it a bond of proximity, having each other’s backs on the field, and a shared dislike of people and their bullshit had been born.

It was nice hearing from him again and knowing that he cared enough to check on him.

𝗞𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
I am fine. Do you know who replaced me?
3:26

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
Not yet. I’ve been procrastinating about going to the room
3:26

𝗞𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
Why?
3:26

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
What if they're not a quiet sleeper like you? :(
3:26

König’s lips quirked up a little.

𝗞𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
Seems like you have a real crisis
3:26

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
I can sense your sarcasm from here you asshole
3:27

𝗞𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
I don’t know what you’re talking about
3:27

𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶
Sure you don’t. Anyway, I gotta go. Talk to you later, big man
3:27

𝗞𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
Talk to you later
3:27

A sigh escaped König as he set his phone down. He stared up at the ceiling for a good few minutes or so, willing his body to move.

There was no way he was going to be able to get back to sleep, even if he wanted to. So, with a grunt of effort, he used every bit of strength in him to sit up, cool air hitting his sweat-slicked back.

The joints in his spine cracked as he struggled to stretch, and the pain in his shoulder reminded him of everything that happened yesterday. A familiar itch began to spread over his skin, the need to 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 forcing his fingers to twitch.

A shower. He needed a shower. A shower to scrape and peel away the filth and shame. Scrub until there was nothing left.

He quickly stood and slid into his boots, threw on a shirt, and hastily pulled on a pair of cargos. He looked around, spotting his hood and balaclava on the floating shelf above the bed. He grabbed them and put them on.

He walked out of the room, sparing a quick glance at his clock before shutting the door. The hallways were empty this early in the morning; his alarm had told him it was 3:31.

König walked quickly, his footsteps echoing throughout the empty halls. He hardly knew the layout of the base yet but wasn’t about to stop and try to find someone to ask. No one would be awake anyway.

His body felt like it was ready to burst into flames, the itching having turned into an unbearable sizzling. He was beginning to sweat, nausea gripping at his innards. He reached under his hood and pulled down the front of his balaclava, anticipating the rise of bile to come to fruition.

𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦.

He needed to find the communals. Needed that shower. Spiraling breaths came too quickly, knuckles white and taut under his gloves. He didn’t know where he was going.

Lost.

So lost.

He craved for KorTac’s base, where he could navigate the buildings without thinking and set himself on autopilot, not worrying about anything.

His hands felt like they were doused in water. They shook as he peeled his gloves away, revealing pale, scarred skin beneath. It didn’t look like he’d ever seen the sun a day in his life.

He wiped his hands on his pants, the action doing nothing to help him, instead the moment the air hit his skin, it dried any remaining moisture, heightening the itch—the 𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 he couldn’t shake.

𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵, he needed to get to a shower. Surely he was close by now.

König looked around, his heart rate skyrocketing and hitting the ceiling, bursting through the roof as he peered down the hallway that seemed to endlessly barrel on.

No. He couldn’t do this.

König quickly spun around and sprinted back the way he came. He spotted his door and charged toward it, desperation rising in his throat.

He barged into his room like a bull on a rampage, his knees hitting the floorboards with a loud thump. He scuttled across the floor until he had a wall to his back, his shoulders pressed firm against it. His shoulders rose and fell, his breaths coming out ragged and weak.

A tear trickled down his face under the mask, and it suddenly reminded him, again, of the little girl and boy from yesterday. Of how he’d petrified them. Of the tears that had streamed down their faces as they saw what he tried to deny about himself. The 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 his teammates always ended up discovering.

A desperate cycle of guilt, blame, pain, and the thought of what would happen if he just simply wasn’t there in the first place came crashing down on him. He curled in on himself and tucked his head into his knees, shaking and fighting to remain cognizant but failing miserably.

He gasped, just trying to fucking breathe as he did his best to do the steps he'd done earlier, the gulp of air forcing its way deeper into the far reaches of his lungs. He choked on the exhale, feeling a twist in his stomach, the nauseating sense of guilt forcing its way up.

He barely managed to rip off his hood and balaclava before he retched up a puddle of ghostly white and yellow onto the floor before him, some splashing onto his feet. It was disgusting. 𝘏𝘦 was disgusting.

His throat burned from the sour sting of acid on the back, and more tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision, but the awful sensation somehow served to help calm him down, finally allowing him to inhale and exhale a long, shaky breath and repeat the action.

König sat there for what felt like hours but was surely only twenty minutes, focusing on his breathing and the safety of the walls surrounding him.

Slowly, he started to unravel. His legs peeled away from his chest, his arms gingerly unwrapped from his body, and he sat up. His surroundings came to focus as he fully came down from his panic and was immediately met with the foul-smelling odor from the drying liquid on his floor. He scrunched his nose up at the smell and sight.

He definitely needed to shower now.

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Suds and foam pooled around König’s bare feet as hot water sprayed onto his back, penetrating deep into his flesh—a comforting blanket of heat that he had been desperately craving.

He kept himself angled toward the wall, in case someone else decided to invade his space and take a shower as well. It was highly unlikely, but the paranoia was there anyway. Just one of the many downfalls to being a guest at another base. Unless you got lucky, your room most likely didn’t have a toilet and sink with a shower attached. The communal shower was your only option for bathing.

He sighed, scrubbing the last bits of shampoo out of his hair, then stepped out and grabbed a towel, wiping away the water droplets sliding down his face.

In the mirror, a long, sullen face stared back, exhausted to the point of delirium. Smudges of grease paint still remained in his eyebrows and lashes that he hadn’t bothered to take off after yesterday's mission. His hair had grown long since the last time he bothered to stop and actually look at himself for more than a few seconds. It was definitely past regulation but with his hood it wasn’t like anyone would know.

He tied it back in a low ponytail, the length just barely long enough for him to do so and cringed when some slipped and fell back into his face. It stuck to his cheek, clinging to the harsh angle of his jaw. Still, it was better than having it rest against the back of his neck and drip.

Satisfied to get most of his hair off his back, König let his eyes roam the rest of his reflection, stopping to stare at the bags underneath his eyes that usually lay hidden under the black grease paint he wore, a stark contrast to his alabaster skin. He could still see the faint red underline to his eyes from earlier.

He sighed and grabbed his balaclava, pulling it over his head, slightly grimacing at the faint smell of his puke still lingering. He’d have to wash it later.

He then threw on a sweatshirt and a pair of cargos along with his sniper hood before heading out of the shower room, grabbing his shower pack and his pile of dirty clothes.

He passed by a couple soldiers who were finally beginning to wake up as he made his way to the washroom, which he’d thankfully spotted on his second attempt to find the showers.

Once he arrived, he threw in his clothes, pouring a respectful amount of detergent into the machine, and then made his way back to his room.

As he stepped in, he was immediately greeted with the stench of his puke still lingering in the air, serving as a reminder of how pitiful and disgusting he was.

König groaned and made his way over to the window, stepping over the now-dried puddle of whitish yellow. He opened it and took a moment to stare outside, smelling the mildewed air. It was quite foggy outside, and he was on the second floor, so he wasn’t able to see much, but it was soothing nonetheless.

Maybe it had to do with how, despite the air smelling foreign, like oak trees and precipitation, it still smelt scarily similar to Austria in its rainy months. It hadn’t been a surprise for König to find out that T.F. 141’s base was located in the UK, considering that over half of its members were SAS, but it was shocking to realize that there were similarities between Austria and the UK, no matter how small.

The Austrian sighed and turned back towards the puddle on the floor. He looked around for something to clean it up with and noticed the desk in his room had a pack of tissues on it.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬. He thought and made his way over.

König spent the next couple of minutes scrubbing away at his floor relentlessly until he was certain there was none left, wanting to rid the place of any reminders from earlier.

Once he tossed the tissues away, he glanced back over at the window and debated whether he should close it or not for a moment before deciding he’d just shut it later and let the room air out.

With one final glance around he opened his door and walked out, making his way to the cafeteria, being sure to keep to himself.

The mess hall was crammed full of drowsing soldiers when König entered, which weirdly helped him not feel as anxious as yesterday, knowing that the soldiers were all far more concerned with coffee than him at the moment. Still, he decided to make his way through the line and find a nice quiet corner off to the side as far away from everyone else as quickly as possible.

Breakfast wasn’t something he usually ate much of, so his plate was rather empty, only consisting of a small portion of eggs and sausage, leaving him free to observe the soldiers around him.

They were all talking and chatting with one another in a low buzz, unlike yesterday, when most were energetic. Now they were still waking up, not having the energy to have energetic conversations and joke around.

“This seat taken?”

König nearly jolted, not noticing anyone make their way over towards him, and quickly turned to the voice beside him. He felt the tension drain slightly from his shoulders at the sight of Gaz. Gaz, who he hadn’t noticed amongst the crowd or heard, and was currently staring at him expectantly.

“Oh, uh, no,” König said after a moment.

“Can I sit?”

König’s first instinct was to say no, but then he heard Horangi’s little “get out of that damn shell you hide in and live a little,” and nodded. Curse the Korean.

Gaz grinned. “Thanks,” he said, taking the seat across from him. He took a bite of his own eggs, quickly chewing before saying, “Y’know I gotta say you did good on yesterday's mission. It was bloody great watching you kick down those doors like tha. Think if Roach were ere' he’d’a liked to see it, too.”

König tensed, flashes from earlier bombarding his brain before he could stop them. He quickly forced them back down into the deepest pits of his mind, where they would stay locked away until they could rise once again in his dreams, forever haunting him.

“Danke,” he forced out, glad his voice came out steady. Then, just to change the topic, he added, “Who is Roach?”

“Hm? Oh, that’s right. You haven’t met him yet, huh,” Gaz said. He took a moment thinking over his words before saying, “Roach is a quiet one, sorta like yourself, but don' let him fool ya. When he wants he can be nothin’ but chaos.”

König nodded.

“He should be returning in about two weeks or so if I'm not mistaken…,” Gaz continued, mumbling to himself more than talking to König now.

The Austrian simply nodded again, unsure of what to really say, before finally deciding to distract himself by taking a spoon full of his eggs and lifting his hood just enough to take a bite.

He could feel Gaz’s eyes on him, no doubt wanting to get even just a glimpse under the hood. König pretended not to notice and instead let himself and Gaz sit in silence for a little while longer, simply existing in one another's space while they ate. It was comforting, not having to make conversation. At least, it 𝘸𝘢𝘴 until Gaz suddenly spoke up, breaking the silence, much to König’s own dismay.

“So, König. Go’ a question for you,” Gaz said.

König kept his eyes set on his tray. He knew it was only a matter of time before Gaz asked about the hood, but he had let himself have hope that Gaz might be different from everyone else.

“What is it?” König asked.

“You like tea?”

“I—“ König blinked, the question catching him off guard. He looked up at the Brit, puzzled. Was it common with Gaz to ask random questions, or was it just him he did this to? Either way König assumed he should be grateful that Gaz was different. He couldn’t help the warm fuzzy feeling he got for being wrong about Gaz.

“Wha is with you Brits and yer tea?” A familiar mohawked Sergeant's voice cut in. König and Gaz both turned to face Soap, who was taking a seat between them, not bothering to ask for permission to join them.

“Hey, König,” Soap said with a lazy grin.

König gave a small nod. “Hello, Soap.”

“Put a sock in it ya gobby and let the man answer,” Gaz said. Then added, “It's the least you can do if yer just gonna invite yourself over.”

Soap’s face scrunched up, eyebrows drawing together as his eyes squinted and he turned back to Gaz. “The hell is a ‘gobby’?”

“It means you don’ ever shut up,” Gaz deadpanned.

Soap dramatically gasped in offense. “Awa' an bile yer heid,” he grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest, slouching down into his chair. Gaz rolled his eyes at the Scotmans antics before turning back to König who was silently watching their little exchange unfold, slightly amused at their banter.

“Sorry bout’ him. Anyway, back to my question. You like tea?”

König shrugged. “Ja, I suppose so.”

Gaz hummed. “Wha’s your favorite kind?”

“Sacher Blend,” König said, not putting much thought into it. He wasn’t big on tea or really any drink, to be honest (whatever was available being enough for him), but he remembered that Sacher Blend tea was the kind his mother used to drink a lot when he was a child and loved to make it for him when he felt sad or sick, and the fond memories it brought up made for a warm, comforting feeling to settle deep in his chest.

“Can’t say I’ve heard of that one before. Wha’s in it?” Gaz asked.

König thought for a moment, racking his brain to remember the ingredients he’d read about somewhere.

“If I’m not mistaken, it holds a mixture of black tea from Darjeeling, bergamot oil and white cornflower blossom,” he said, finally managing to remember. He had learned about it when looking further into the type of tea his mother liked shortly after they got back in touch so he could buy it for her birthday.

“Hm, I’ll definitely have t’ try it sometime,” Gaz said, once again mumbling more to himself than really speaking to König.

Soap shook his head and made a 𝘵𝘴𝘬 sound. “Seriously? Did you just ask him if he drank tea just so you could get a new flavor to try?” Soap asked.

“And so wha if I did? No harm in askin’ a simple question,” Gaz retorted, giving Soap a small glare.

“If you want new tea flavors how about you get off yer lazy arse and search for a few?” Soap shot back.

“Like you're one to talk,” Gaz said.

“Wha’s tha supposed to mean?”

“I dunno maybe it means—” Their banter began going over his head, because all König could focus on was the skull masked man now standing at the doorway to the cafeteria.

He silently observed Ghost look around the mess hall before his gaze landed on him, and König felt himself hunch his shoulders up, wishing he’d become invisible.

He could see the way the Lieutenant seemed to stiffen at the sight of him. König gave a small nod, swallowing his queasiness down, as a way to try and break the ice. Ghost’s gaze seemed to turn even colder.

𝘚𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, the Austrian bitterly thought.

“Huh. I wonder where L.T.’s at,” Soap muttered, drawing König’s attention back to him and Gaz. Was he psychic or something?

“I’m sure he’s around ere’ somewhere,” Gaz answered.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Soap agreed, and looked around. It took only a few seconds before the Sergeant spotted the Lieutenant still standing in the doorway, stiff as a board. It was obvious Ghost didn’t care about the fact he was blocking other soldiers' ways, and it was clear no one was going to dare ask him to move.

“Hey, L.T.! Wha you doin’ just standin there? Get over ere’!” Soap called, waving his arm and patting the table.

Ghost didn’t say anything, instead he just turned around and walked out.

“Wha— hey!” Soap squaked.

Gaz laughed. “Guess he isn’t in the mood to deal with your blabberin.”

“Oh, shut up,” Soap huffed, sparing a second to glare at Gaz before he set his eyes on the doorway again.

Despite Gaz’s joking tone König could see there was more to it from the looks in both his and Soap’s eyes. It was about him no doubt.

“M’gonna go after him,” Soap said after a moment. He turned back to König. “But before I go, do you wan’ to exchange numbers? I’d like to be able to ge’a hold o’ you.”

“Oh, yeah, me too,” Gaz joined in, a big grin on his face.

König blinked at both of them, feeling his cheeks warm. They both reminded him of puppies waiting for a bone to be tossed their way.

“Oh, uh, sure,” He agreed, and before he could even pull his own phone out Soap and Gaz already had theirs in hand, the contacts page already open.

König put his number in both their phones and then handed them back.

“Right then, I’ll text you la-er,” Soap promised. “And you be’er text me back,” he playfully warned before walking away.

König nodded, a small smile forming. “I will,” he said to the Scotsmans retreating form.

“Same goes for me,” Gaz said, standing up from his seat. König turned back to him, slightly tilting his head.

“You are leaving?”

“Yeah, got some early trainin’ to do with the rookies. Anyway, thanks for lettin’ me sit with ya. See you later,” Gaz said.

“See you later,” König echoed, trying to ignore the strange feeling of disappointment.

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The sounds of voices and faint thundering thwacks drew König towards slightly agape doors. He'd been walking around familiarizing himself with the base since after breakfast, not wanting to have any more confusion as to where he was anytime he walked the halls.

As he peered in, his blood turned ice cold. Amidst the rows of weights and treadmills, he could see a familiar skull-masked man punching a hanging bag in the far corner. His punches were hard, muscles rippling under his shirt as he delivered powerful blows that König could hear even from halfway across the room. His shirt even looked like it was ready to burst with every single ripple of muscle tightening and bulging from his powerful blows.

Ghost danced around the bag with ease for a man of his stature, punching it like he was training and not just landing heavy, sloppy blows for the fun of it, and for a moment, König almost admired it. That was until Ghost rounded the bag and faced him, those eyes darting to look at him through the slight crack in the door. He quickly looked away.

𝘐𝘤𝘦.

He turned to continue walking, not wanting to push his luck and end up on the receiving end of those blows, but quickly came to a stuttering halt, having to slightly roll to the side to avoid the oncoming body he was about to ram into.

“Ah, 𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ße, I’m sorry—“

“Woah, careful there König!” A Scottish accent yelped.

“Soap?” The Austrian asked, turning to face the Scotsman.

“The one and only,” Soap joked. “Geez Mate. I was just goin’ for a quick workout and next thing I know I'm nearly getting killed by a one man stampede. What would they’ve told my maw?” Soap finished with a chuckle.

König sheepishly looked away from Soap. “Sorry,” he said quietly.

“You're fine König. I'm just messin with ya. But now I gotta know, what were you doing that had you in such a rush?”

“Oh, uh,” König felt his cheeks warm. “I was just taking a walk around the base to familiarize myself better,” He lied. Well, it wasn't a complete lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. But Soap didn't need to know that.

Soap hummed. “Right. Well since your ere’ how do you feel about being my sparring partner? You like to spar, right?”

𝘕𝘰. “Sometimes.”

Soap grinned. “Aye, then you won’t mind having a quick sparring session?”

“Ja,” is all he said, a forced sound. König wasn’t big on sparring but if Soap was asking he’d say yes. It was the least he could do after nearly running the guy over.

“Brilliant,” Soap said, his grin somehow growing even wider.

König stood there, before the now widespread doors, watching as Soap made his way inside the gym.

Now that he could get a better look, he noticed the gym was pretty spacious, one side being essentially a big wrestling mat, the other side having free weights, punching bags, and treadmills along with some more miscellaneous workout machines.

“Ya comin’?” Soap called from beside the mat, waving for the Austrian to come over.

König took a deep breath, his back curling as he stepped inside the room. He made it a point not to look in the Lieutenant's icy direction as he walked towards the Sergeant.

“Right, so I was thinking anything goes except for groin attacks, pulling off masks, biting, eye gouging, and throat strikes. Chokeholds are allowed though. And neither of us stops until the others knocked out or tapped out, sound good?” Soap asked.

König nodded. “Ja.” The rules were easy enough for the ring.

Soap grinned. “Well then, let's get started.” He got into a starting position and König followed suit. The Austrian noticed through his perceptual vision a few soldiers stopping their workouts to gather around, no doubt wanting to assess his skill set. He could hear a few soldiers already beginning to whisper and place bets on who would win.

“You ready?” Soap asked, his voice drawing König’s attention back towards him.

König gave a nod.

Soap wasted no time, immediately swinging, but with a slight dodge to the left, König managed to avoid a fist to the face. He brought his hands up, prepared to deliver his own punch, but the familiar icy prickle on his neck of eyes boring into him caused him to momentarily hesitate.

Soap instantly noticed the opening and wasted no time lunging forward, reaching for König’s mid section. His arms wrapped around the Austrian, attempting to knock him down. König stumbled back for a moment before catching himself and hooking his right arm under Soap’s neck and pulling up. He could hear Soap struggle to breathe before he felt a foot creep up and hook around his leg. With one swift pull, they were on the floor and soap was on top, practically straddling König.

Blow after blow started raining down on König, each punch feeling like a boulder being crashed down on top of him. He knew the Sergeant was strong when he’d first laid eyes on him, his build leaving little to the imagination, but he hadn’t realized just 𝘩𝘰𝘸 strong Soap was.

He let the blows keep coming, instead of trying to stop them he focused on finding a good hold on Soap. Once he did, he grabbed the waistband of Soap’s pants, using that as an anchor point to have a solid grip before he used his weight and rolled. Now he was on top, using his legs to cage Soap in. König didn’t have the advantage for long though, because the moment he went for a chokehold Soap headbutted him as hard as he could.

The pain was sharp and made his eyes water and burn—his nose felt like it was on fire. Blood immediately began to flow steadily down his face. While he was disoriented, Soap pushed him off and when König went to get up, Soap got behind him and got him into a rear chokehold. König knew he had less than a minute before he’d pass out from the lack of blood flow to his brain. His mind was racing, his heart was pounding and sweat was dripping down his body.

He felt the adrenaline rush take over and in a last ditch effort he used the fact he was still on his knees to try and stand up. Soap noticed and instantly applied more pressure to his throat and pushed almost all his body weight on the Austrian, causing König to stumble back down and gasp for more air that barely made it into the depths of his lungs.

His vision blurred on the sides and he felt his head begin to spin and the world sway. He had seconds, if not maybe a few minutes before he was knocked out cold.

König took in one last deep breath before bringing an arm up and digging his fingers into Soap’s forearm. He pulled it downwards and turned his head to the side to relieve some pressure. Then, he used every ounce of strength in every fiber of his being that he had left to lean forward and get a leg underneath him. He used that leverage to finally stand despite Soap’s efforts to keep him down.

He stood there, slightly leaning forward on shaky legs, praying Soap’s feet were no longer touching the ground before he leaned back, allowing gravity to take over the 400+ pounds of the two combined to come crashing to the ground.

Soap let out a very strangled gasp, all the air in his lungs being forcefully pushed out. He hacked out a few coughs, being disoriented enough to loosen his grip, allowing König to escape.

The Austrian’s vision was mostly black and he knew he was vulnerable and weak at the moment and that he had just used all his energy to pull that stunt, but he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

He could feel the blood dripping down his face from under the hood, hear his heart hammering in his ears, and feel the familiar buzz start to creep up and spark throughout his body. It was a familiar feeling, one he could only describe as pure adrenaline rushing through him.

Despite his legs feeling like jello, König quickly rushed forward and toppled onto Soap, causing him to go into another wheezing fit as his air was once again stolen from him.

König sat there with one leg laid across both of Soap’s, putting as much weight down as he could, and pinned the Scotsman’s hands above his head on the ground with one hand wrapped around the Sergeant's wrists as his other arm pressed across Soap’s throat, keeping him from inhaling air.

König was panting like a dog, his sweat beginning to seep through his mask, hair starting to stick onto his cheeks to the point where he was convinced that Soap could see it through the eye holes of his hood. He’s pretty sure if he wasn’t wearing the sniper mask, his sweat would drip onto Soap’s face.

It took only a few seconds before Soap began tapping his elbow on the floor to indicate he was surrendering. At first König didn’t respond, too wrapped up in the high of the fight—the 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭—of finally having his opponent beneath him, but then he quickly realized and released Soap, scooting off and away from the Scotsman.

Soap immediately took in a big gasp of air before going into a coughing fit and sitting up.

“Scheiße, I’m sorry I didn’t mean—”

“Wha are you apologizing’ for, huh?” Soap asked, his voice so hoarse and deep König didn’t even think it belonged to the Scotsman. “Tha was a bloody good fight. Really thought I had you there for a sec,” Soap continued and let out a small chuckle, subconsciously feeling around his throat where König had pressed his arm down. It was slightly red but didn’t look like it would bruise.

König slightly cringed at the sight of Soap’s neck. This was why he didn’t like to spar with others. He always ended up being too aggressive. He should have held back. He should have been more careful or—

A low whistle echoed from the side of the mat, drawing both Soap and König’s attention. They both turned, seeing a familiar British Sergeant walking towards them, lightly clapping his hands.

“Nice work, mate. Dropped Soap right on his arse,” Gaz said, a grin wide across his face.

“Not the only thing he did, look,” Soap grinned, now standing and raising his wrists, turning them for Gaz to see the redness appearing on them. König once again shunned away from the sight of what he had done. “The boy’s got quite a grip.”

“Sorry, I—”

“If you’re sorry about that, don't be. Having that kind of strength is just what we need at the 141,” Gaz said, cutting König off.

“Oh so we’re dissmissin’ tha on my behalf?” Soap barked out a laugh. “He’s right though, that strengths nothin’ t’be ashamed’o.”

“I— Dankeschön, Soap.”

The Scotsman grinned and patted him on the shoulder. König wanted to flinch away and sink into the rare warmth of the touch all at once, a strange conflict inside of him. “No problem, mate.”

“König,” a familiar gruff voice resonated through the room. Any conversations about the fight instantly came to a halt, the room going so silent you could hear a pin drop.

König instantly stiffened, his eyes shooting to the direction of the voice as he felt the air around him drop to freezing. There, amongst the crowd stood Ghost, his arms crossed over his chest, chin slightly raised, and his eyes piercing under the mask as they locked onto the Austrian.

König couldn’t find any words to muster up as Ghost made his way over. Everyone followed the lieutenants movements, not daring to speak a word, some not even daring to breathe.

“One more round?” The lieutenant asked, coming to stand in front of König. His question came off more as a demand rather than an actual inquiry.

“I, uh,” König glanced at Soap and Gaz who each had a mix of surprise, confusion, and something akin to sympathy on their faces. He internally sighed. “Ja,” König agreed, silently cursing his luck and wondering what he did to deserve this. Maybe he upset a god in a past life or something? That’s the only thing he could think of to explain why the one thing he didn’t want to do, which was cross blows with Ghost, was happening right here, right now. The masked man basically being hand delivered to him on a silver platter.

The lieutenant stayed silent but gave a nod. The crowd that had gathered around earlier seemed to double instantaneously along with the whispers of bets and excitement. Most favored Ghost, unsurprisingly.

Ghost made his way to the center of the mat and dropped into a fighting stance by muscle memory. König swallowed down his nerves and quickly made his way over to do the same. His head was still slightly foggy from his fight with Soap, and every nerve and muscle in his body was screaming at him, but at that moment he didn’t care. All he cared about was not dying.

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Ghost watched every movement König made as he walked over and got into a fighting stance of his own. He made sure to catalog every piece of information from the Austrian, like noting which side he leaned more weight to, how openly he left his stance, and even going as far as to pick out physical weaknesses like his knees. The Austrian was tall; that was a given. But it was obvious that he relied too much on the physical attributes of his body's physique to put any effort into a solid fighting technique. This was shown in his last match against Soap, and with height like that, if you leave openings so blindingly obvious, it's easy to get the upper hand. Hence, weak knees.

Ghost would admit that from watching the Austrian on their last mission, he wasn’t a complete disaster when it came to fighting, but his reckless nature and lack of form in the field were going to get him killed. How that hadn’t happened already, Ghost didn’t know. He could only assume it was because the Austrian relied so much on his natural strength, muscle, and height that he was able to pull crazy stunts like earlier and, by pure luck, win. But luck could only get you so far, and if König thought he was winning this match by luck, well, he was in for a rude awakening.

Ghost honestly didn’t know why he had called out the Austrian’s name and challenged him. He hadn’t planned on talking to König at all, let alone fighting him, but before he knew it, the Austrian’s name was slipping past his lips.

Maybe it had something to do with the curiosity he's been feeling. Sure, he’s watched König fight twice now, both on the field and in regular sparring, but, if he were to be completely honest, that wasn’t enough.

Since the moment König arrived, he’s felt like there was something off, and time and time again, he’s heard of the strength the Austrian holds and witnessed it himself. To say he was curious was an understatement. It wasn’t so much of a want but a 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 to actually experience König’s strength himself. After all, seeing and experiencing are two different things, right?

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“We’ll use the same rules as your and Johnny’s match, ready?” Ghost asked, his eyes burning into König’s very being. The Austrian nodded. That was all Ghost needed. In a split second he was on König like an angel of death ascending from heaven.

When they clashed, it was like two mountains colliding. König managed a good right hook, which sent Ghost stumbling to the side, but that didn’t keep the man down for long because just as quickly as he’d landed a hit, Ghost was back and landing a few powerful blows of his own.

König was right earlier in his assumption that he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the lieutenant's punches because, 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵, did it feel like with each one his bones would snap.

They spent the next few minutes trading blows, punches, kicks, anything they could to get the upper hand on the other. It seemed to never end—König’s cursing being heard here and there. It felt like he was stuck in the eye of a hurricane and no matter where he looked Ghost would be there with another hit.

The lieutenant was more flexible than the tower of a man in front of him, and you bet your ass he was using that to his advantage. He dodged and rolled and moved around the open space, using it to keep König on his toes.

The younger man’s swearing under his breath only increased as time went on—he couldn’t get a solid enough grip on Ghost, and it didn't take long for him to make a mistake.

In a split second, Ghost dropped the fist he’d raised, feigning to the left. He landed a hard, devastating kick square to König’s solar plexus that forced any air in his lungs out like they'd been popped. By pure will power König managed to not fall to the ground, instead only stumbling five feet back.

“Scheiße,” König wheezed out, the room slightly spinning as he tried to regain the breath knocked out of him.

Ghost didn’t wait for König to catch his breath, instead swiftly moving in and going for a punch to the face. König managed to dodge to the side, but the sheer momentum he'd used to narrowly miss the punch ended up making him stumble, and that, along with the fact he was still hazy from his last fight and had the wind knocked out of him, allowed Ghost to instantly land a hit to his left knee, causing both to buckle, essentially sweeping his legs from out under him and being sent crashing to the ground.

Weight was on top of him a second after he made contact with the floor and he felt himself be pressed into the mat by one of Ghost's hands, the other grabbing his wrist and holding it behind his back.

Before König could even think of a way to get Ghost off, he heard the man’s voice rumble next to his ear. “What is this to you?”

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?

“What is combat? What is going on the battlefield and risking your life to take another's?”

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵?

“T-to fulfill a mission, sir,” König gasped out. 𝘛𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦, is what he really wanted to say. 𝘛𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦.

“Then prove it,” Ghost said and got off. Coughing, König stood and watched Ghost get back into a fighting position. He couldn't understand what the man's goal was with asking that question, but he didn't exactly have the time to ask either. Right now it was life and death. So, instead of voicing his inquiry, he did the same.

This time, König was the first to make the moves, more looking to hit mean punches and grabbing at Ghost to throw him on the ground than be on the receiving end, using his long reach to his advantage.

After a few hits, Ghost dove under König’s fist and, quickly, before König had the chance to react, delivered a blow to his legs once again, sending him to the ground.

Immediately, König felt Ghost begin to move back into his earlier position, and so, without much thought, he whipped his elbow behind him, causing a loud 𝘵𝘩𝘸𝘢𝘤𝘬 to resonate as he made contact with the hard skull part of Ghost’s balaclava. Ghost got sent tumbling down to his side while König was left with a searing buzz of numbness spreading from his elbow throughout his arm.

It was not worth it.

“Bloody hell, they aren’t holding back, are they?” König heard Gaz say somewhere to the side of the mat.

“Nope,” Soap agreed, popping the 'p'. He was clearly amused and it made something inside König come alight—a buzz of electricity spreading throughout his body and forcing his heart to quicken. It was just like when he used to fight in the ring. He usually hated the eyes that were on him but in moments like these all it did was fuel his desire to fight, to feel the adrenaline—the 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩.

König quickly stood, just as Ghost did. Ghost didn't waste time and aimed a kick at König's midsection, but before he knew it, he suddenly felt König's hand clamp down on his leg. The Austrian flipped him to the side—the momentum Ghost had already helping him along—and sent him flat on his ass. Clenching his teeth to avoid biting his tongue, Ghost wheezed out a 'fuck!' The harsh landing forcing all the air out of his lungs.

However, he didn't let himself concentrate on his need for oxygen, instead quickly bringing his other leg up and wrapping it behind König’s neck, pulling forward, and allowing the force to send the Austrian crashing down face first onto the mat.

While König was stunned, fighting to regain control over his limbs, he felt Ghost settle his weight on his hips and twist the arm he managed to get in his grasp to an uncomfortable angle, so that even the slightest press of weight would dislocate it. Even so, he still decided to try and get out from under Ghost. Though he’d never sparred with the lieutenant before, he knew just how strong the older man was and that the slightest misstep would decidedly 𝘯𝘰𝘵 end well, so he only shifted a bit (mindful of his arm) to test the hold, but the pin didn’t move a millimeter. His other arm was free, and he contemplated for a moment doing the same trick he’d pulled earlier with his elbow but quickly scrapped the idea at the risk of Ghost actually dislocating his shoulder.

König tried to think of some other way out of his current predicament, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, before he went limp in Ghost's arms. He tapped the ground twice to tell Ghost that he was giving up; it was sadly his only option, as he failed to find an outcome where he didn't have a dislocated shoulder.

“Yield?” Ghost asked. It was a form of torment in König’s opinion, a way to boast he’d won.

“...Yield,” König confirmed after a moments hesitation. As soon as those words left his lips he was let go, tipping forward and landing on the ground with his face to the side. He didn't really care though—he was far more focused on trying to catch his breath.

A sharp whistle and slow clapping cut through the room, despite the loud commotion of other soldiers talking. Ghost and König's heads turned in the direction of the noise. "Don't think I've ever seen you eat the mat like that, L.T. Quite the picture," Soap chuckled, stepping closer to them. Gaz was right behind him.

“No kiddin’ tha elbow looked like it bloody hurt. Even left a crack in your mask,” Gaz said, and pointed at his own face where the crack was like he had the mask on.

Ghost hummed, acknowledging Gaz’s words and subconsciously bringing a hand up to feel his mask. He knew the Austrian had got a good blow in when he felt blood trickle down his face, but he hadn’t thought his mask had been cracked.

“Hey, König, are you good?” Soap asked, looking over at the still heaving Austrian. König nodded and waved off Soap, who tried to reach for him to help him up, "I'm fine, just need a second."

Soap raised his hands in a mock surrender with a quiet “a’ight” under his breath, backing away and watching König take a few shaky breaths before getting back up on his feet.

"You need to watch your footwork, that was the second time a kick took you out," Ghost advised. König stiffened and looked over at the lieutenant. Ghost wasn’t looking at him, instead staring at the doors to the gym.

König gave a nod. “Dankeschön, sir.”

Ghost grunted in acknowledgement before walking towards the doors.

“Hey, wait up L.T.!” Soap called and took a step forward, then stopped to turn to König. “You did good,” he said quickly before running to catch up to Ghost.

König watched as Soap fell in step with Ghost, and he was able to hear a few bits of their conversation as they walked away.

“So what did you think?” Soap asked.

Ghost responded, and König was pretty sure he heard him say something like “relies too much on height” along with “thinks his reach makes up for holes in his technique.” He said something else as well, but König couldn’t make it out. The Austrian felt his jaw tighten as he clenched his teeth.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝙝𝙚 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸?

Soap chuckled and responded with something that looked like teasing before he heard him say the word “but” in a questioning tone.

He saw the lieutenant grow more tense and look away from the Sergeant before mumbling his response. König was only able to hear the words “it was a good fight” because he had strained his ears to listen.

“Ha!” Soap said loudly along with something else as he and Ghost rounded the corner and left. König felt his jaw relax and some weird sense of pride at the praise the lieutenant had given him, despite it not really being praise at all.

“nig–”

“König!” Gaz said, voice raised. The Austrian tensed and quickly turned to the Sergeant.

“Ja?” He asked.

“You ok mate? You were spacing out there for a sec.”

“Oh, ja. I am fine.”

Gaz looked at him, eyes squinted for a moment. “I think we should take you to the infirmary just to be safe. You took a lot of blows from both Soap an' Ghost,” Gaz said.

“Oh, nein that is not—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Gaz cut in, waving his pointer finger back and forth in front of König’s face like an owner scolding their puppy. “This ain’t up for debate. C’mon big guy, we’re going to the infirmary. Gotta make sure you don' have a concussion.”

König let out a sigh, shoulders slumping. “Alright,” He relented, eliciting a grin from Gaz.

“Good.”

The walk to the infirmary was relatively silent save for Gaz asking if he was feeling alright here and there. Every time he’d say yes, despite feeling such a profound exhaustion that one could only describe as bone-deep. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off he could feel the bruises forming all over his body and could definitely tell his nose had been broken by Soap earlier.

König groaned, his face and head hurt, his body ached with every step he took, and all he wanted to do was sleep, but he also wanted to get this over with and knew Gaz wouldn’t just let him go, so he kept putting one foot in front of the other.

“We’re almost there. Just a little further,” Gaz assured. He could tell König was in pain but he had to make sure the Austrian got to medical and at least had his head checked out for a concussion.

Once at medical, König got pulled to the back and behind closed curtains, the medic raised the hood just enough to do what they needed to do. They examined his nose and determined it was likely broken, then got an x-ray with a mobile machine and took it to the doctor who confirmed their suspicion. The doctor and medic came back to the curtained room, and gave him the diagnosis.

Gaz was standing outside the curtain the entire time, making sure no one walked in if they weren’t supposed to. He listened in to the conversation behind the white curtains.

“Alright König, first things first. You don’t have a concussion and the majority of your injuries are just bruises. The one thing I have any concern for is your nose. If you look here on your x-ray,” The doctor pointed at the films in his hand. “You can see that you have a nasal fracture.” He moved and handed the images to the medic standing next to him before turning back to face the Austrian.

“The good news though, is your fracture isn’t as severe as some of the ones you’ve had in the past. Which means all I want you to do for now is ice it, 10 minutes on and 20 minutes off. No combatives, come back here in two weeks and we’ll reevaluate you.”

König nodded. “Danke…,” he said.

Gaz could tell that König was bummed out, even if he couldn’t see his face.

The curtains were pushed open and the doctor and medic walked away to another patient. Gaz turned around and watched König adjust his hood, the inner corner of his eyes were bruised and he looked tired.

“Can we go now?” König asked.

“Yeah, we can go,” Gaz said.

König stood up from the chair he was sitting in, putting his hands into his pockets and followed Gaz. The walk out of the infirmary was quiet, neither of them daring to say anything. Surprisingly, it was König who broke the uncomfortable silence.

"Dankeschön, Gaz,” he mumbled.

“No problem, mate. Just glad you don’t have a concussion.”

The Austrian hummed. “Ja, so am I.”

Gaz chuckled. “Well, I’ll see you later,” he said as they came to stand at an intersection of the hallways. “I’m sure you wanna get some rest.” Gaz gestured down one of the hallways. “And I gotta get some paperwork filed about my rookies performances from earlier today.”

“Right, see you around.”

Chapter Text

His face still hurt—it was only a couple days after the fight and the bruises around his body were still decently dark, and his nose still throbbed, but the pain hardly bothered him anymore.

His week passed slower than ever, only being able to clean weapons, eat, read, clean some more, and then sleep. König’s anger would flare up every hour or so, and that was how he found himself frequenting the gym more often than not.

Much like right now.

The sounds of König letting out short, sharp breaths and gasps as he continued to land blow after blow on the sandbag in front of him echoed throughout the gym. His knuckles stung with each hit, but he didn’t bother stopping. It was his own choice not to bandage his hands, needing something to stimulate him.

He felt sweat drip down his forehead under the mask and paused for a moment to lift the hood and wipe his face with the back of his hand. As he did, he saw the sandbag falling back at him, heading straight for his face, and instead of dodging, he met it with another fist, a loud 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱 echoing through the gym—the first to signal many more as he started up again.

Now, König wasn’t usually a huge fan of being in public places, but now that he had nothing better to do than clean, he went to the gym so much he practically lived there. He even began wishing he could spar instead of lifting weights or punching hanging bags just to have something 𝘯𝘦𝘸 to do.

The worst part was that König knew he couldn’t even blame anyone but himself for his predicament, and that fact alone only served to fuel the fire burning within him. It had been his own decision to let himself be dragged down by Soap, which ended with him getting headbutted in the nose, causing his current nasal fracture that was driving him crazy. He hadn’t stopped Soap, even when he saw the Sergeant reach for his midsection, because he hadn't thought Soap was going to be able to drag him down. And that was the problem. He hadn’t 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵. Something he seemed to be all too familiar with doing, considering his medical record probably made up more than half of his file.

Hell, he’d even underestimated his opponent because Soap was 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 than him, and it had almost cost him the match.

“𝘏𝘢.” König couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous he’d been. He should've stopped him, even if he didn't think Soap would be able to drag him down. But he supposed that, in the end, all that mattered was that he had won. He had taken down the enemy and completed his objective like the good little soldier he was. There was no use dwelling on the past now. He couldn’t change it even if he wanted to. A fact that kept him up most nights.

König swung at the bag in front of him, putting all his strength behind it, and only then, did he start to forget about everything on his mind—every little detail about yesterday, about past missions, memories, mistakes, dreams, all of it. He hit and hit and hit, his skin becoming red and raw as he felt the fibers of his knuckles rip under the pressure of his blows, but he didn’t care, didn’t stop, he just hit harder.

His fist slid by the sandbag, his knuckles skidding across the leather-like material of the bag and drawing blood for the first time that day. A bright red streak formed across it, a stark contrast compared to the charcoal black leather. It wasn't enough to make him stop; instead, his breath picked up to an even more dangerous pace, and he felt the fire inside him burn stronger, brighter, and hungrier. It wasn't until his hand started coloring a big, wet patch of red on the surface of the bag that he forced himself to stop.

When he did, he watched as blood dripped down the bag in a thin line of dark crimson, hanging at the end before ever so slowly dropping onto the gray floor tiles. König swore under his breath, blaming himself for tainting the floor.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before walking to the side of the room and fetching a few pieces of tissue. He came back—pretending the damn wound on his hand didn’t exist—and started wiping at the floor, returning it to its former color. If he’s been shot and stabbed more times than he could count, why should a little wound on his knuckles matter?

As he moved on to the sandbag, cleaning the red stains off the leather-like surface, his mind forcefully calmed down and a familiar British accent cut through his thoughts.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

The Lieutenant’s words echoed in his empty mind. König wiped off the last bits of the bloodstain, tossing the tissues into a trash can on the other side of the room. He looked down at his hands, letting the air blowing from the air-con units touch over his red stained skin. As soon as the bleeding stopped, he walked back over to the sandbag and readjusted his stance before starting another round of attacks.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝙝𝙞𝙢?

Everything. That was stupid. König regretted thinking like that the moment the thought came to his head. He wasn’t some obsessed addict that needed to get a fix like his brother. He was a soldier who carried out orders. Nothing more and nothing less.

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪? The Lieutenant’s voice asked again, like it was repremanding him for lying, for trying to say that he was more than an adrenaline-driven bastard who only knew how to jump at the chance to get his next fix.

König clenched his teeth, letting out a sharp, irritated exhale. How was he supposed to answer that? Was he supposed to walk up to Ghost and say that it was a way for him to hide? That it was a way for him to escape and finally feel free from all the judgment, the haunting memories, the consequences of his actions, the urges, and everything else he tries to run from? That in the moment he doesn’t even register that what he’s doing is taking another's life but instead thinking about the thrill of feeling free, of being able to come close to death’s doors and say he walked away?

How do you answer why you take someone's life? The simple response would be that he was ordered to and isn’t paid to ask questions or have feelings about it. A more moral response would be it was for survival, for 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 even. But none of those would be the truth. Hell, he doesn’t even fully know what the truth is.

He could try to answer, but he’ll never be able to really say why he took a person's life. No one could. After all, there was never just one reason. The world was never just black and white. So why did that question bother him so much? Why did Ghost even want to know?

All these questions and no answers only caused König’s head to start to throb, an indication of a headache forming, and served to irritate him more, causing him to let out a low growl that sounded borderline animalistic, unleashing all his anger on the sandbag in front of him. He almost felt bad for the thing, considering he had beaten it so many times. Perhaps if the sandbag was an actual person he happened to run into on the field, he would spare their life from his large, bloody hands, but the sandbag wasn’t a person, and he didn't feel like being generous.

“König…?” A familiar British voice called from the other side of the room a few minutes later. König looked towards the direction of the voice, with his back still arched and fists up, ready to let himself continue hammering into the poor sandbag in front of him. It was only now that the Austrian realized that his appendages were trembling, even though he wasn't tired at all.

“Hey, mate, been looking for ya.” Gaz said.

König relaxed, taking three consecutive, short breaths in without breathing out. He stood straight and closed his eyes, letting out a long exhale, feeling all the built up adrenaline and tension begin to ease away.

“Hey,” König replied, his voice weak, completely unmatching of the growl that he let out moments ago. “What did you need?”

“I was just going t’get some lunch and figured I would invite ya,” Gaz said before his eyes casted down to look at something. His brow creased in worry. “Are you okay, mate? There’s blood on your hand,” Gaz asked. König hated how soft and caring the Sergeant’s voice came off.

"I am fine, Sergeant." he replied curtly, instantly regretting how harsh he came off. He didn't exactly know what to say, because obviously he didn’t need Gaz to take care of a few bleeding knuckles, but the question of “is he okay” struck a little deeper than it should, and that coupled with his growing irritation over the last couple of minutes caused the best counter response he knew–hostility. "It's...no big deal,” he added, voice slightly softer than before in a silent apology to Gaz.

Gaz hesitated a moment, seemingly eyeing him from top to bottom. His body had become tense at König's harsh response–something that made him feel even worse, having forced Gaz out of his relaxed demeanor–but Gaz didn’t seem offended. If anything, he seemed even more worried for whatever reason.

"Really?” Gaz said after a few seconds and raised a singular eyebrow. “Y’know...if you need to talk, I’m always ere’, right?” He asked, voice going softer.

König shifted uncomfortably, eyes looking away from the Brit. "Dankeschön Gaz, but I am fine.”

Gaz nodded slowly. “A’ight, if you say so…” he said, voice trailing off. He looked like he wanted to say more but instead he just sighed and said, “Anyway, bout my earlier question, do you, uh, want to grab something to eat?”

“Nein, I ate earlier,” he lied. Then added, “But I appreciate the offer.”

“Ok, maybe later then?” Gaz asked, his voice more tentive and hopeful than König liked to admit to hearing.

König nodded, unable to promise the Sergeant something he wasn't sure he would keep with words.

“A’ight then, see ya later,” Gaz said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He gave the Austrian one last glance before he turned around and walked away.

König felt a wet trickle on his hand as it started bleeding again, and that’s when he realized that he’d been picking at it since Gaz pointed it out. König swore under his breath as he looked for another tissue.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

König took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet smell of freshly fallen rain. The scent was damp and earthy, almost musty, but with a hint of something almost citrusy underneath. He sighed, his eyes closing as he savored the smell, imagining he was back in Austria during the rainy season.

The smell was a nice way to relax and further take his mind off of the restlessness he hadn’t been able to shake since basically being put on house arrest.

There was a hint of smoke in the air which was…weird. König opened his eyes and glanced around, immediately feeling his blood run cold. Only a few meters away sat a bench underneath a light pole with none other than Ghost occupying it as he smoked.

From this angle, König couldn’t make out any distinguishing features of the man’s face from what Ghost allowed to be shown; his mask was pulled up just to the bridge of his nose, and if it weren't for the skull on his balaclava, König probably wouldn’t have realized it was Ghost.

The Austrian silently watched as the Lieutenant brought the cigarette up to his mouth and exhaled one last puff of smoke before stumping the cigarette out and pulling his mask back down. He looked relaxed as he leaned back on the bench. It caught König off guard, only ever seeing Ghost with his tense and stoic demeanor.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬“ The skull-masked man’s voice echoed in König’s mind. The Austrian stiffened. That was right. Ghost had given him some advice after his fight with him. He hadn’t really found the chance to think about what Ghost said, being more focused on taking his mind off of his house arrest, but now that he thought about it he realized he really wanted to ask the Lieutenant what he would suggest he did differently.

König swallowed.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳.

“Lieutenant Ghost,” König said, coming to stand next to the bench, proud that his voice came out perfectly steady. He noticed the Brit instantly tense.

“What is it, König?” Ghost rumbled. A demand.

König took a breath. “I wanted to ask, what was it about my footwork that you thought I needed to watch?”

Ghost didn’t say anything, instead continuing to stare ahead. The Austrian shifted nervously. Maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut? Yeah. He shouldn’t have bothered Ghost. It was obvious the Lieutenant didn’t really like him and definitely didn’t want him asking him questions, and yet here he was making things worse. Typical.

König cleared his throat. “I, uh, I see caught you at a bad time. I'll just...go. See you later, sir,” he said and quickly turned around, walking back the way he came.

“König,” Ghost called out as the Austrian walked away. The younger instantly froze and turned around.

“Yes, sir?” König asked, slow and quiet, as though he was talking to a cornered animal. 𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬, he wasn’t usually this nervous. Ghost stood and walked towards him.

“Your footwork was fine but you lacked self awareness and allowed yourself to concentrate on my movements and forget your own.” Ghost said, eyes staring knives directly into König’s. It was taking everything in the Austrian’s will to not look away.

König swallowed. “I, uh, Dankeshön for the insight, I—”

“It's not just your self awareness that needs improvement but also your technique. It’s reckless,” Ghost continued, cutting the Austrian off. “You rely too much on height and think your reach makes up for the holes in your fighting style and get sloppy when overwhelmed. That said, you have potential to improve.”

König felt his jaw clench and cheeks warm. He knew Ghost already thought all of this from overhearing his conversation with Soap yesterday, but he hadn’t thought the Lieutenant would just bluntly say it to his face.

He swallowed, wetting the inside of his lips with his tongue before saying, “How do you think I could improve?” keeping his voice as steady as possible.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he peered up at König, almost like he was searching for something before he said, “My advice, start with concentrating on your own movements and not only your opponent's. Another good place to start is with your knees. They’re a weak point. Your height may be an asset but it’s also a weakness, remember that, and improve on it,” the older man finished, his voice rough.

That had to be the most professional chew out he’s ever received. König’s mouth opened and shut like a fish under water, words dying in his throat. He felt like a toddler being scolded by their parents and an idiot being told something that was so blindingly obvious all at once.

He bit his tongue and fought against the way his shoulders wanted to drop, both embarrassed at himself and undoubtedly irritated at the masked man in front of him for making him feel this way, for making him feel so 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭.

"Dankeschön, Ghost,” König forced out, making sure none of the annoyance he was beginning to feel dripped into his tone. Despite being irritated, König was grateful that Ghost even bothered to humor him. It may have been derisive, but it was still sound advice.

They stood there like that for a good few seconds, two entities staring each other down. König didn’t dare move an inch, staying so still he might as well have been a mannequin rather than a man.

Ghost didn’t say anything to him throughout the duration of their staring contest. In fact, not a single sound came from his being, almost like he wasn’t even breathing. The only thing that signaled he was still alive was the way his eyes squinted, intensifying his glare. It almost seemed as if he was responding to someone else though and not simply acting on his own. Like someone glared first so now he had to respond. König wasn’t sure why that was. Then, without a word, Ghost averted his eyes away from König, half-lidded and empty, as though he had lost all the interest König had managed to pique and slightly side stepped to get past the Austrian.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦.

König couldn’t help but stare at Ghost’s back as he walked away, his eyes feeling more tense than usual.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Soap and Gaz were sitting in the rec room, each taking up spaces on the old couches, with Soap on the couch to the left and the other man sitting on the right.

“So, König and Ghost. I’m not the only one who feels the tension there, eh?” Gaz asked.

Soap sighed. “Aye, you’re not.”

“Any idea why Ghost seems to ave’ it out for König?”

“He said he doesn’t trust him,” Soap grumbled and slumped down a little on the couch, looking at the empty space just next to him, the spot that Ghost usually occupies.

He had hoped that given some more time, Ghost would finally start to warm up to König, but after the way he challenged him to spar a few days ago, it was clear he wasn’t going to anytime soon.

Then, there was also the conversation he had with Ghost a few nights prior—he had asked the masked man why he suddenly challenged König to spar out of nowhere, and the only response he could get out of the man was bullshit, like he just wanted a good spar to finish his workout. It was frustrating, to say the least.

Gaz turned on the TV, crossing his ankles together as he skimmed through channels.

“Any clue as to why?” He asked.

“Says it’s a feelin.’”

“That ain’t a bloody reason,” Gaz grumbled.

Soap sighed. “I know. I'm tryin’ to get through to him tha König is a good lad.”

“Hope it works. The poor guy is always more tense with Ghost around.”

Soap hummed in acknowledgement, feeling a slight pang of sympathy for König and anger towards Ghost.

“Although, gotta admit I didn’t think König would be able to slam Ghost down like tha.” Gaz continued.

Soap let out a chuckle. “Aye, tha 𝘸𝘢𝘴 certainly a sight. Who’da thought a quiet guy like him could pack such a punch? Or elbow in his case.”

“No’ me,” Gaz said. “But, you know wha’ they say.”

”Wha?”

“𝘚’𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴, right?”

Soap smirked. “S’true.”

“Speaking of König, ave’ ya seen him?” Gaz asked.

“No, why?”

“I...saw him earlier, and he looked really stressed out to me. And…” Gaz paused a moment and sucked in his bottom lip. He kept his eyes glued to the TV. “His hand was bleeding. Wouldn’t tell me why, just said he was fine. Seemed real tense.”

Soap studied Gaz's face for a second and stood up. “Right then, I’m gonna go look for him an’ see if everythings a'right. You wanna come?”

Gaz shook his head. “Nah, you go. Just...let me know if there's anything to worry bout’, yeah?”

Soap nodded. “O’course.”

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It took a little while to narrow down where König was, but after searching a bit, Soap finally realized the Austrian was in his room. He knew he couldn’t just walk in there and ask about his hand, so he made a small pit stop to his own room and grabbed his sketchpad. He had promised König that he would show him his drawings after all.

Soap walked up to König’s door and took a deep breath before knocking. He heard shuffling behind the door before it slightly creaked open, revealing the Austrian. Soap could see the moment König realized it was him by the way his shoulders relaxed. He smiled.

“Hey, big guy,” he said and held up his sketchpad. “Still wanna see my drawings?”

König took a second, seemingly debating something, then opened the door fully. “Ja, I would love to.”

Soap nodded and stepped into the room, letting his eyes wander around. Despite König having said he had unpacked, the room looked pretty much the same as any of the rooms before people moved in. The only things he saw that had any personal value were a few books on the floating shelf and a phone on the nightstand.

Soap looked around for a few seconds longer before his eyes landed back on König, who was standing in front of the door still. He looked nervous yet eager as he waited to see what was in his hands, like a child on Christmas Day, hands behind his back and all.

Soap liked showing his art to people. He’d found that many artists didn’t like to show their work, but he had always liked to see the light in people’s eyes when they looked at his stuff. It made him feel good—appreciated even.

He especially liked to draw people. They were his favorite subjects. So far since joining the 141 he had been able to draw Gaz, Roach, Price, Ghost, and even Farah and Nikolai, though the majority of his drawings were of Ghost, unsurprisingly. He still had yet to get a drawing of Alex, the slippery bastard.

“Right, take a look,” he said, offering the sketchpad to the other man.

“Are you sure?” König asked, hesitant, like he was about to read Soap’s diary or something. Soap wanted to chuckle at how cute that was.

“Yeah,” Soap nodded. “S’all good.”

König nodded and reached for the sketchpad. Soap made sure to look intently at his hands as he carefully grabbed it with both of them, like it was something very precious and fragile.

Like Gaz said, one of König’s hands had been injured and was now bandaged. Soap tried to keep himself from frowning. He wanted to ask, but seeing König so comfortable and content made him stay silent.

The Austrian seemed alright, and Soap silently promised to keep an eye on him for a little while to be sure nothing was going on.

König moved and sat down on his bed, Soap following his lead and pulling out the desk chair and sitting in it, watching as König opened up the sketchpad, eyes roaming over the first page. It was a drawing of Gaz from the side: he was sitting down looking at something as he nursed a cup of tea.

“𝘔𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘵, Soap,” König breathed out.

The Scotsman couldn't stop the smirk on his face.

König flipped to the next page, uttering a few more German words. Soap didn’t understand, but his tone was all awe. He then got to his favorite sketch of Ghost—the one where he was standing in front of their bathroom mirror, applying black eye paint through the holes of his balaclava. Soap remembered that day very clearly; he had to fight the other and 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 him to stay still enough for him to get the outlines he needed. He considered it his best one, though.

"Er sieht friedlich aus. Ich kann das nicht glauben,”^[3] König said, then looked at the Scotsman. “Soap, how are you in the military?” he asked.

“This is just a thing I do when I have free time,” Soap shrugged. “It was never my calling.”

“I see,” König said. “You are very talented, Soap. These are amazing.” He flipped to the next page and tensed.

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König stared at the page wordlessly. On it, there was a picture of a woman. She wore a turtleneck and had her hair up in a bun, but König could tell it was long. Her cheeks had a slight dusting of freckles on them, and her eyes crinkled at the corners with her smile in a way that reminded König of Soap’s. Her nose slightly resembled his too.

𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥? König silently wondered. No. It couldn’t be, Soap was with the Lieutenant, was he not?

Without much thought König found himself asking, “Who is this?”

Soap hummed and peered over at the sketchbook, a small, fond smile etching its way onto his face. “Ah, that’s Elise. She’s my sister. I forgot I had that one in there.”

“Sister?” König couldn’t help but question.

“Yeah, she’s one of two. My other sister is named Maisie. She’s the oldest. Elise is the second. I don’t get to draw them tha often, working in the military and all, so I’m surprised that sketch was in there.”

König hummed. “I can see you being the youngest.”

Soap gasped, bringing a hand to rest across his chest where his heart was. “What’s tha supposed to mean, eh?”

König couldn’t help but chuckle at Soap’s antics. “Nein, it’s not a bad thing. You just seem to give off, ah, what is the term…oh! The vibes.”

Soap snorted and let out a loud cackle. “‘The vibes’, aye? A’ight then. How about you? Do you have any siblings?”

König tensed a little, a small frown settling across his features under the hood. “Ja, I have one. A younger brother.”

“Hm, so you’re an older sibling, aye,” Soap said, then, because he noticed the way König’s mood seemed to shift, asked, ”Is there anythin’ you want to know bout my sisters?”

König perked up at that. “Oh, Ja,” he said. “What are they like?”

Soap smiled at König's eagerness and thought for a moment, then said, “Well, Elise runs her own little jewelry shop, so she's pretty bossy, but she’s also very kind and loves animals. One time when we were younger she brought home a racoon because she thought it was a cat,” He finished with a chuckle.

König nodded along, silently urging Soap to continue.

“Maisie is stubborn, she likes things done a certain way, a perfectionist if you will. She’s very kind hearted though. Adventurous too. Last time we talked she told me she went bungee jumping. Can’t say I wasn’t jealous,” Soap said with a small smile. “Speaking of bungee jumping," He continued. "Tha reminds me a lot of something Gaz did on one of our past missions.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” König asked.

A huge smirk made its way onto Soap’s face. “Well, ya see. He was on a chopper one second, and then the next he was hanging from the bloody thing by a rope. It was hilarious. Price was freaking out the whole time while simultaneously tryin’ to keep his cool.”

König let out a loud snort at that, cheeks warming when he did. He cleared his throat. “That certainly sounds like it was...fun.”

“Gaz wouldn’t agree. He hates whenever I bring it up, or anyone for tha matter.”

“I can see why.”

Soap nodded, then looked down at his sketchbook laying in the Austrian’s lap. “Hey, König?”

“Hm?”

“How would you feel bout me drawin’ you?”

König opened his mouth, ready to say no, but then remembered how he had promised the Scottsman he would let him the last time he asked.

König let out a quiet resigned sigh. “You can draw me, but I’m not sure how well I’ll be able to stay still,” he sheepishly admitted.

Soap smiled. “That’s fine. If you want you can read something if you think that’d help.”

König nodded. “Alright.” He reached over and grabbed a book from the floating shelf above his bed, not bothering to read the title until he sat back down. Then he handed the sketchpad back to Soap.

“Where do you want me?” He asked.

“There’s fine, you can make yourself comfortable in any position you’d like.”

König nodded, then turned himself to the side, scooched back to rest his back against the wall where his bed headboard would be, and held the book in his hands, finally in a comfortable enough position.

“Tha’s 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵,” The Scotsman said, satisfied. König’s lips twitched up in a smile under his hood.

He opened the book, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘰𝘺, by Alan Sakell, and began reading it, solely focusing on the book and nothing else, keeping himself as still as he could.

He read for a good few minutes, listening to the scratch of graphite pencil and the occasional rustle of eraser rubbing on rough paper. He tried not to twitch and squirm, but couldn’t help shifting every now and again. It wasn’t his fault though. No one had ever paid him this much attention before—not to mention, it was hard to ignore the Scotsman's intense, green eyes zoning in on him. It was almost as bad as the Lieutenants gaze, only this one didn’t feel nearly as hostile and cold.

He felt a little awkward, like his limbs were at weird angles because of how long they were, and was hyper aware of every movement he made, no matter how small.

After some time, Soap finally finished, saying “A’ight, all done” allowing König to breathe again.

Despite everything, König was still excited to see the final results. He tried not to let it show, moving slowly to the Scotsman’s side. But when he saw the picture, a sharp breath escaped him.

𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦.

He looked… 𝘯𝘰𝘵 like how he imagined himself to be. The shadows casted on his body, the way his fingers were spread across the back of the book, the curve of his shoulders, the way his hood bunched at the bottom—it was all beautiful. Even his unnaturally long limbs were perfectly proportionalized.

“Soap, this is incredible,” König said, awe evident in his tone. “But, I don’t…” 𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵—

“Just drawing what I’m seein’,” the Scotsman shrugged, as though it wasn’t one of the most beautiful sketches König’s ever seen. “D’you wanna keep it?”

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?

“Nein, I can’t possibly—”

“Nonsense. If ya want it you can ave’ it,” Soap said, cutting him off and waving his hand in dismissal.

“I—” Does he want it? Or does some part of him want Soap to keep it, so he always has a memory of him in his book to remember him when he heads back to KorTac? Or should 𝘩𝘦 keep it to have a way to remember Soap when he returns?

Yeah, he was definitely keeping it. “I would love to.”

Soap smiled and gingerly tore the page out and handed it to König. “𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘦, Soap.”

“No problem, big guy,” the Scotsman said. “You know, I don't know what you meant when you said you couldn’t stay still. You were damn near a statue readin’ tha book. You shoul’ let me draw you again sometime, these other guys can’t sit for more than five minutes before they start whining.”

König’s face heated up under his hood. “Of course you can,” he said.

“Is now too soon?” Soap asked, a grin wide across his face.

König was about to say no when a knock rang through his bedroom. The Austrian instantly stiffened before standing and walking towards the door. He opened it, only to be met with Gaz on the other side.

“Hey, König,” Gaz greeted, his eyes falling behind the Austrian and into his room. “Oh, and I see Soap’s with ya. That works perfectly.”

“Hello Gaz,” König said.

“What are you doing ere’?” Soap piped up, coming to stand next to König.

Gaz shifted a bit, bringing a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Price wants us all to get to the conference room. He made it sound pretty urgent. Sent me to find all of you.”

“Do you know what this is about?” König asked.

“...No.”

Chapter Text

“Right, is everyone ere’?” Price asked from the doorway, an air of authority resonating off of him. König tensed as he turned to face the man. Next to him, Soap and Gaz both shared curious looks as to what this meeting might be about, and he had to admit he was curious too.

“Yes, sir,” Ghost rumbled from across the table to the Austrian. He sat there, legs spread wide, with both his hands resting on his thighs, looking completely unbothered by the sudden call to the conference room. Soap sat next to König in the same place as last time, slightly leaning forward to meet the Captain's gaze, with Gaz on his other side doing the same.

“Good,” Price said with a nod, and walked over to the head of the table, letting a stack of papers fall. “Let’s get straight to business, shall we?” Price pulled out a folder from his stack of papers and handed it to Gaz. It was light and didn’t appear to have anything inside except for a few pictures and documents. Soap peaked over Gaz’s shoulder to see the folder’s contents, studying everything thoroughly as Price began to talk.

“The woman you see in these pictures is Andrea Varona. She has vital information on Luis Sanchenz, also known as El Cortador.^[5] He's the leader of Los Naco, a Mexican criminal syndicate and terrorist organization considered one of the most dangerous of Mexico’s drug cartels.”

Soap slid the stack of pictures to König, who began flipping through them slowly and with intention, studying the pictures and getting whatever information he could from them.

The pictures consisted of a woman with long, wavy cinnamon-brown hair, each taken from different hidden vantage points. There was one from a cafe where she was sitting at a table sipping coffee beside the window; another where she was on her phone in the street; one of her leaving a gas station; and far more.

König stared closely at Andrea in each photo as he studied them. He couldn’t help but wonder how she came to be such a valuable asset to locating a leader from one of the top Mexican cartels around. Sure, everyone had a past, their secrets and reasons, but at what point in her life did she feel so much desperation that she turned to the streets and never looked back? When did she decide life would be easier being on the run and never having a moment's peace again? Was her reasoning something that could have been fixed? Or was this path inevitable? In the end, he guessed it didn’t really matter. She made her choices in life, and no amount of wondering where everything went wrong for her could fix that. It wasn't his job to pity her anyway.

Ghost observed König as he flipped through the pictures, watching him run his fingers over the outline of the background in some of them, almost able to see the gears in König’s head turning rapidly. The Austrian slowly set down the pictures and passed them to Ghost before turning his attention to the typed documents in front of him, spending more time on those.

It seemed Los Naco was known for engaging in brutally violent tactics such as beheadings, torture, and indiscriminate murder, and even though they were primarily concerned with drug trafficking, the organization also ran profitable sex and gun rackets, along with protection rackets, assassinations, extortion, kidnappings, and more.

𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘯? König thought. It was no wonder they were being sent out to get more information on Luis.

“Thanks to Laswell’s intel, we were able to track down where Andrea is suspected to be residing,” Price continued. “Ghost and König, you both will be leading a Marine Special Operations unit along with the five of you to bring her in.”

Soap raised his hand.

Price nodded. “Yes Soap?”

“M’sorry, did you say five?” Soap asked.

“I did.”

"But there's only four of us ere’,” Soap pointed out and made a show of gesturing and glancing around the table.

Price sighed. “Sergeant Anderson will be joining you on this mission. He’s already been debriefed.”

“Wait, I thought Roach was on a mission and wasn’t gonna be back for another week yet?” Gaz asked, joining in on the conversation.

“Tha he was,” Price confirmed. Then he further explained by saying, “He managed to complete his mission early and is flyin’ in now as we speak.”

A huge grin made its way onto Soap’s and Gaz’s faces. König shifted slightly in his chair. He knew he was going to meet Roach eventually and had heard a few stories about him from Gaz, but he couldn’t help feeling slightly nervous about meeting the Sergeant. Everyone who König’s talked to—which has really only been Soap and Gaz—seemed to like him, and there was this little voice in König’s head wondering what would happen if Roach didn’t like him as well. It would obviously cause problems working alongside the team, maybe even result in him feeling the same tension he does with Ghost, but would it result in Gaz and Soap thinking differently of him as well? Unlike with Ghost, who he’s heard is just naturally guarded and untrusting when you meet him—even if it feels like there's more to it than that—König’s only ever heard of Roach being open, accepting, and friendly with others, just like the Scott and Britt sitting beside him. If someone like Roach had some vendetta against him, it would most likely ruin all the progress he’s managed to make with the members of 141, and for some reason, that thought doesn’t bother him just because it would mean he’s screwing up KorTac’s chances of ever working with T.F. 141 again.

“Is tha all?” Price asked.

"Yes, sir,” Gaz and Soap said in perfect unison as König gave a silent nod and Ghost grunted in confirmation.

“Good,” Price said. “As I was saying, our goal is to capture Andrea and bring her in for interrogation. Tha said, all shooters have executive authority.”

Price walked over and started the projector. Images of faces, papers, and buildings appeared. “Intel indicates Andrea is huddling up at this location 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦,” He said, pointing to a cliffside on the shore with a single building on it surrounded by acres of luscious green grass and trees. “A beach house in Malibu, rented under one o’ her aliases. Surveillance shows there are soldiers guarding the structure.”

Price walked back over to the table and leaned forward, resting his hands against the edge. “This means chances are she knows you're coming and therefore won’t have the element of surprise,” He explained, his voice dropping an octave. He eyed all of them before adding, “Let’s not forget that most likely there will be soldiers on the other side of those doors, just 𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 to put bullets in all o’ you. Be extra careful.” Price looked over in the direction of a certain hooded-mask wearer.

“König—“ at the mention of his name, the Austrian tensed and slightly straightened his posture. “You 'ave t' head to medical and get cleared for the mission.”

König’s shoulders slightly slumped. “Yes, sir,” He said. Gaz gave him a sympathetic look while Soap patted him on the shoulder and whispered, “I'm sure you'll be cleared”.

Despite the attempt at reassurance, it only caused König to slowly shrink in on himself as he felt his cheeks heat under the mask. He didn't need their pity. Especially over something as small as a broken nose.

Price nodded in acknowledgement. “Alright, Roach will be landing any minute. You all will be flying out in twenty. Unless you have any more questions, you’re dismissed.”

The sounds of chairs scooting across the floor filled the room, and König stood, moving to walk around the table and out the door. Soap quickly walked up to him and fell in step with him.

“Hey König, mind if I go with ya to medical?” He asked.

“Nein, you can come along if you wish.”

Soap grinned. “Alright then.”

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"Ok, König, take a seat." The medic said as she closed the curtains. Just like last time at medical, König got pulled to the back and behind closed curtains, and Soap was left standing outside like Gaz had been. König followed the medic’s instructions and sat down in the chair as she walked towards him.

“Can I?” The medic asked, gesturing to the hood on his face. König hesitated a moment, having to swallow down the nerves that formed into a lump at the back of his throat at the mere thought of having his face covering removed—it didn't matter that it was just going to be above his nose—and then finally nodded. The faster he got this over with, the better.

The medic gave him a reassuring smile before lifting the hood and beginning to gently press on the outside of his nose and the surrounding areas. König inhaled sharply at the slight sting it brought. It wasn’t as bad as it was a week ago, but it still hurt. Then, once the medic was done thoroughly pressing down on his nose, she slightly tilted König’s head back and looked at his nasal passage to check for obstruction and further signs of broken bones. She hummed to herself before taking a few steps back.

“Ok, your nose seems to be in good condition. The swellings definitely went down along with the bruising, and the fracture appears to be mostly healed, if not all the way healed. I can confidently say I feel comfortable clearing you to go on your mission,” She said with a smile.

“Dankeshön,” König replied, pulling down his hood.

“Don’t mention it. I’m going to go sign the necessary paperwork you need to give to Price, and then you’re free to go.” She explained and stepped back, turning and opening the curtains before walking away.

“So,” Soap began after a moment and peeked his head in through the now-open curtains. “Tha’s good news, aye?”

König turned to face the Scottsman. “Ja,” He said in agreement and stood up.

“Glad to hear you're cleared. Was worried for a minute there,” Soap said, and walked into the makeshift room, shutting the curtains behind him.

König slightly tilted his head to the side. “How come?” He asked.

“Huh? ‘How come’ what?” Soap mirrored König, tilting his head to the side, nothing but confusion coloring his face.

König shifted his weight, glancing to the side. “I mean, why were you worried?”

“Oh,“ Soap blinked, staring at König for a moment. He thought it was obvious why he was worried. “Uh, because we're friends?” He said. At least he thought König and him were friends. He definitely hoped he hadn't been misreading things. It was sort of hard to tell what König thought most of the time. The only thing Soap had to back up his assumption was that whenever he managed to drag König to hangout with him, the Austrian never seemed to be annoyed or more uncomfortable than what was expected of someone with social anxiety. Well, Soap thought König had social anxiety. He wasn’t sure or told, but it was obvious König wasn't one for socializing; anyone who spent a few minutes with the Austrian could see that, and it didn't seem to be from not liking other people but from his lack of an ability to properly communicate with them without feeling awkward or possibly judged. Hence, even though Soap’s never been told, he’s mostly certain that König has some form of anxiety.

König refocused his gaze on Soap and stared, standing there, completely silent. The Scottsman expected him to say something after a moment or two, but he never did; instead, he just stared, seemingly lost in thought, as he scanned over Soap's face. It was almost like he was searching for something. What? Soap didn’t know.

The silence that continued to linger between them was unbearable—to put it plainly, a vast contrast to the usual peaceful quiet that naturally surrounded the Austrian. At least Soap thought so.

For some reason, he felt like there was some unspoken tension wafting in the air, and he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what exactly caused it. He didn’t think he had said anything wrong. Unless König had been offended by him assuming they were friends, which could be a very possible conjecture, but for some reason, that didn't feel like the right answer.

So that left the question: What was wrong?

It wasn’t unusual for König to be quiet. He was much calmer than Soap after all and settled for listening rather than contributing—a trait that always reminded Soap of Ghost, but right now, all he could think was that there was something 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, and he hated that he found himself struggling to come up with something to fill the silence. Which was unusual.

Soap had always been terrible when it came to quiet atmospheres, always feeling the need to spark a conversation or share random things to keep the space filled with noise. It was just something that had always been a part of him, going as far back as when he was a baby. A trait his sisters always loved to tease him about. So to say it was baffling to him as to how he couldn’t think of a single thing to say was an understatement.

“I—” König started, instantly snapping Soap out of his thoughts and, to the Scottsman’s silent pleasure, breaking the silence. König glanced back towards the floor, shifting his weight back and forth. “Thank you,” He mumbled.

Soap chuckled. “Um, not to be rude, but wha are ya thankin’ me for exactly?” He asked sheepishly, bringing a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

König kept his eyes glued to the floor, his shoulders slightly hunching up as he curled in on himself, feeling his cheeks warm. “For, uh, caring,” He elaborated. “You didn't need to come here with me, so thank you.”

“Haud yer wheesht! O’ course I needed to come!” Soap practically shouted. König flinched at the sudden exclamation, head snapping up to meet Soap’s gaze. “It was me who broke yer nose in the first place. It was only right that I came ere’ with ya. Besides, that's wha friends do. And we’re friends, right?” Soap asked, and though he made it seem like it was a friendly tease with no real curiosity behind it, König could see how the grin he wore didn’t seem to fully reach his eyes, like he was scared König would say no.

König once again stayed silent, only staring at Soap, who had to resist the urge to shift uncomfortably. It was almost laughable how much König resembled a deer caught in headlights in that moment, but Soap couldn’t focus on that, not when he had those eyes boring into him. He had thought L.T.'s stare was bad, but compared to König's, he would almost say it didn’t hold a candle to it. 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵.

Unlike Ghost’s stare, which made someone feel small and insignificant, König's stare seemed to make you feel as though he could see every dirty secret you’ve managed to collect over the years and then some. It was like he could see everything, and all you could do was stand there as he read your life's story, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

“Ja,” König finally agreed after what felt like an eternity, and just like that, all the weight on Soap’s shoulders seemed to melt away, his grin growing immensely wider and finally reaching his eyes.

The sound of curtains being drawn back drew both the Scotsman and König’s attention, both turning towards where the medic was walking back in with a few papers in her hand.

"Alright, you’re all set,” She said, coming to stand in front of the Austrian, her hand extended with the papers.

“Oh, uh, Danke,” König said, taking the papers. The medic gave a smile and nod, then walked off to check on her other patients.

“Bout time she got them papers,” Soap grumbled, then turned to König. “Ya ready to go, big guy?” He asked.

“Oh, Ja.” König nodded.

Soap grinned. “Brilliant. By now, I’m sure Roach has landed. I can't wait for ya to meet em.”

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König did not share Soap’s enthusiasm. It wasn’t that Roach was a bad guy; on the contrary, he was everything Gaz and Soap described him to be. At least, he seemed to be from the three minutes König’s been able to observe him.

No, what bothered König was the sinking feeling that formed the moment he’d been reminded of the sergeant’s arrival by Soap back in the medbay, which seemed to grow with every passing second. Any and every interaction the sergeant had since stepping into the base was a painful reminder of just how much the Austrian didn’t belong at T.F. 141.

The way Soap’s smile seemed to double in size at the mere sight of Roach, the inside jokes and puns Gaz had exchanged with him, the friendly little pat on the shoulder Price had given him as he greeted him—it sort of reminded König of a dad showing he was glad his son came home safe. Even Ghost, who had been nothing but cold and withdrawn since the moment König arrived, had willingly stepped up to Roach, any and all tension seemingly absent as he calmly greeted the sergeant in such a manner that König had been sure it was a completely different man wearing the mask. If it hadn’t been for the way that the masked man instantly tensed, going on full alert, as Roach stepped up to König, hand extended in friendly greeting, König would probably still think Ghost had been replaced by some type of alien.

Speaking of Roach greeting him, the first thing the Austrian had noticed during their brief exchange was that the sergeant wasn’t all that much shorter than him, only being an inch or two shorter than Ghost, and had a lean muscular build. He was pretty similar to any regular soldier you would see in the force, save for the clear sunglasses and mouth mask he wore that ironically reminded König of Horangi.

The other thing König noticed, which he assumed was how the Sergeant got his name, was that Roach’s helmet had two antennas sticking out of it. Weird, but it wasn’t like he had room to question the man's fashion choices.

So, all in all, König couldn’t say his lack of enthusiasm came from Roach being some huge asshole; the Sergeant was anything but that, after all, which only served to make the knot in his stomach tighten. It was stupid of him to dislike the Sergeant’s arrival just because he had closer relations with the members of 141 than he did.

“Aye König, c’mon. We’re flyn’ out,” Gaz said, waving over the Austrian and snapping König out of his thoughts.

“Coming!” He responded, quickly making his way over to the chopper. Gaz smiled and gave him a small pat on the shoulder as he walked by.

“König, over ere,” Soap called, gesturing to the seat next to him.

König instantly went to take a step forward before halting, his eyes trained on the skull-masked man sitting next to Soap. He looked like he wanted to bolt right then and there, but before Soap could say anything, König hunched his shoulders and slowly walked over to sit next to the Scotsman.

The tension that radiated off of Ghost as the Austrian sat down was suffocating, and Roach—who had been back with the 141 for all of twenty minutes—must have felt the tension too, if the curious head tilt he did as he looked between the two men meant anything.

Soap bit the inside of his cheek, his fist slightly clenched on his thigh. It was awkward, to say the least. Now don't get him wrong; it wasn't unusual for König to be a bit tense before arriving at a mission, from what Soap had observed from their first one and put together from the Austrian's usual behavior, but right now it was different. There was no fidgeting or tensing and relaxing of the man's muscles; instead, he was as rigid as a board, back straight, body disturbingly still, and eyes trained on the ground. And that was discarding the fact that Soap could literally feel a set of icy blue eyes boring into the side of his skull. How could someone not feel awkward?

It didn't help that Gaz was not so subtly trying to have a conversation with him through weird expressions.

He internally sighed, accepting his fate of being the wall blocking the two soldiers from each other and suffering through the rest of the ride in awkward tension. He knew it would be pointless to try to say anything. As long as Ghost thought König was a "threat,” there was never going to be a moment of peace between the two.

“König, right?” Roach spoke up like the saint he was, breaking the heavy silence. The Austrian somehow managed to tense even more as he brought his eyes up to meet the soldier across from him.

“Ja,” He said, his voice, despite his effort, slightly cracking.

“Heard you're a living, breathing, battering ram. Tha true?” Roach asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

König felt heat rush to his cheeks and glanced to the side. “I—nein, I just do my job.”

“C'mon mate you ain't gotta be modest,” Gaz spoke up from where he sat next to Roach. He turned, a grin wide across his face as he looked at Roach. “König ere’ broke a door clean off its hinges in just 𝘰𝘯𝘦 kick.”

Roach let out a low whistle. “Damn, now that's somethin’ I would have payed money t'see.”

“Nah, wha you really would have wanted to see was when Ghost sparred against him and got bodied,” Gaz said. His eyes widened as he realized just what he said and who he said it in front of, a sweat breaking out over his whole body. He quickly turned his head, his eyes meeting piercing blue ones. If looks could kill, he'd already be dead.

“I—uh, n-not tha you weren't impressive! I mean ya did win after all and—”

“Sergeant,” Ghost's low voice rumbled.

Gaz jumped a bit, silently cursing both Soap and Roach, who snickered under their breath at his demise. The sick bastards. This was it. This was the day he died. They probably wouldn't be able to find his body once Ghost was done with him.

“Y-yeah?”

“Stop talking.”

“Yes, sir.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were huddled up alongside the rocks, just a few feet from the designated beach house. The smell of salt wafting through the air surrounded them. The dozen soldiers of the Marine Special Operations unit fanned around the members of T.F. 141, leaving the five men in front.

"𝘋𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺?” Ghost rumbled through his comm.

“Yes, sir,” everyone responded in nearly perfect unison.

“Right then, Alpha team, you’ll be circling around west to come in through the back. Bravo team will go in through the front. König,” The masked man turned and looked straight at the Austrian. “You’ll be in front o’ us. You're taking point and getting us inside.”

König stared for a moment at the lieutenant, shocked that Ghost was trusting him to take point this time, then nodded.

Ghost took that as his cue to continue. “Both teams meet up inside. Remember, we want Andrea alive, but this is capture or kill.”

Ghost tilted his head and spoke into his comm device. “𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘹, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯?”

A moment later Price's voice came through. “𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥." Ghost looked at König.

König nodded. “On me,” The Austrian ordered, and began creeping towards the front of the building, sticking close to the rocks. Ghost followed first, tailing close behind him, and Soap fell in tow with Roach and Gaz.

König rounded a corner just as a soldier stepped out of the house, a cigarette in one hand as he reached for a lighter. With quick efficiency, König wrapped his bicep around the soldier's windpipe, squeezing so hard that he heard a crack before he released the man and watched as his body fell to the ground with a thump.

He looked back at his team, seeing Ghost, Roach, Soap, and Gaz all with their M4A1 gripped tight, pointing at the soldier. He looked around one more time before wordlessly giving a nod, a clear sign that the coast was clear.

Ghost mimicked him, lowering his gun, with Soap, Gaz, and Roach doing the same. König continued forward until he was standing center to the door. Gaz took up position behind him, somewhere to his right, with Soap flanked behind him. Ghost and Roach to his left.

The Austrian couldn't hear anyone inside, but the soldier from earlier confirmed there were definitely personnel in the building, completely oblivious to what havoc was about to ensue.

Roach tried the doorknob, twisting it back and forth, each motion being cut short. He gave a silent shake of his head, confirming it was locked. The Austrian tilted his head. "𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘰 𝘚𝘪𝘹, 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳."

"—𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵." Price's voice rang through the comms.

"𝘈𝘭𝘱𝘩𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯." König spoke through his comm.

"𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬e 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦." Alpha team responded.

König turned to Ghost and Soap, who each took a small step back. To the right of him, he noticed Gaz and Roach do the same. He vaguely registered that Gaz had a small smirk on his face.

König gripped the M4A1 in his hands tightly, pressing the butt up close to his shoulder. He took a step back, giving himself space to get a good walking start to the door, then, without any more thought, landed a perfect, devastating kick to the locking mechanism, busting the door wide open and clean off its hinges.

“𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭,” Roach whispered. “You weren’t kiddin’.”

Gaz chuckled. “I told ya.”

Voices who were absent before suddenly appeared, loud and alarmed, and footsteps rushed around, readying to fight.

“Let's move!” König shouted, charging in. He downed two soldiers coming at him from the hall, one with a bullet to the chest and another through the neck and leg.

He looked around and watched as Roach downed a soldier simultaneously, as one came to sneak up on him. Before the Austrian could do anything, Ghost had already shot the soldier down, swiftly and efficiently.

The rest of the building's sweep was spent similarly. König took down as many perpetrators that dared to come across his path, all the while trying to not lose himself completely to the thrill of it all, and watched as the members of T.F. 141 effortlessly moved in sync, needing no more than a glance to know what the other wanted and constantly having each other's backs.

It was like watching ice skaters in their zone glide across the ice with swift and efficient moves. It reminded him just how much he didn't fit with them. He couldn’t tell what Ghost wanted from him without some verbal command or a clear physical one. Soap and Gaz were always rushing around, making it hard to keep track of them, yet here Roach was, understanding every and any small movement or look the skull-masked man gave and constantly knowing where Soap and Gaz were. Like it was second nature.

He was the perfect clog in the machine that just seemed to 𝘧𝘪𝘵, while König was the old battered and rusted one, slowing all the others down, just barely keeping up with them.

König quickly snapped out of his thoughts as he rushed over and stabbed a soldier in the back, tossing their limp body to the floor.

"Thanks, mate,” Roach said, lifting himself off the wall he'd been cornered against and struggling to keep the now-lifeless corpse on the floor from stabbing a kitchen knife into his throat.

König nodded, then looked around, assessing the room before tilting his head.

“First floor is clear,” He announced. “𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘰 𝘚𝘪𝘹, 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳.”

”𝘙𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢." Price cut across the comms.

”Let’s go,” König ordered, and began creeping up the stairs, barely making a sound as the team filed behind him.

They rounded the top of the stairs, everyone spreading out. Soap and Gaz headed off somewhere to the right, Roach and another soldier went left, while König headed straight, going down the hallway with Ghost on his six.

He came to the first door and kicked it open, firing off three shots in quick succession. One shot hit a woman's leg, causing her to let out a bloodcurdling screech as she dropped her gun on instinct to grab her leg. Ghost wasted no time taking the opportunity to shoot past the Austrian and hit her square in the head, blood gushing out of the wound as she fell face first to the ground, blood pooling around her.

The lieutenant quickly moved in, sparing no time, with König hot on his heels.

“Clear!” Ghost announced.

“Same here,” König said. Ghost motioned his head towards the doorway, and König nodded.

They continued their way down the rest of the hallway, stopping outside a door that had low music playing from inside. From the specs of the house they'd viewed before flying out, it was said to be an office.

“𝘗𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵, 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺,” Ghost rumbled through the comms.

“𝘙𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢 𝘓.𝘛., 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘸,” Soap said over comms.

It took a few moments, but soon the Scotsman and the rest of 141, followed by a few other soldiers, came to stand behind the Austrian and skull-wearer.

König took a deep breath and exhaled, letting all the tension building up seep away. He needed to focus.

He looked to Ghost, and with a final nod of confirmation, König moved back and bodily rammed into the door, the force so great that the door dented the wall as it hit.

He moved out of the way as Ghost charged in with his M4A1 raised, his finger on the trigger. König followed suit, coming to stand next to Ghost.

Across from them was an office desk, neatly organized, with nothing but a laptop sitting on top of it. Behind the desk was a black office chair where Andrea sat calmly, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. She closed the laptop and leaned back in her chair. “What took you so long? I was beginning to think you weren't coming,” She said coolly, her eyes locking with Ghost’s.

“Stand up,” Ghost barked.

Andrea’s smirk widened as she stood up from her chair, unfazed by the guns pointed at her.

“Now, now, there's no need to be fiesty, ninos^[4]” she said, walking around the desk.

“Get down on the ground, hands behind yer head,” Soap ordered, motioning with his gun towards the floor.

“You want intel, right?” Andrea continued, her voice strong and unwavering.

“I said, get. Down,” Soap said again, finger moving to slightly tighten around the trigger in a show that he wasn't playing.

König studied the woman in front of him; something about her unwavering confidence made something deep inside him unsettled.

More soldiers burst into the room, guns aimed at Andrea. But she didn't flinch; she didn't back down. Instead, she held her ground, her gaze turning from Ghost to the rest of the men.

“I kneel for no man,” She spat, her eyes like daggers. “And especially not for pendejos^[6] like you.”

“Fine then, get on the damn ground for me." A woman soldier said, stepping up, her gun raised as she walked closer. “Or I'll put a bullet right through you.”

Andrea eyed the woman for a moment, a smile forming across her lips. “You wouldn't dare. You need me.”

“You're not the only one who has information,” Ghost rumbled. “You just so happen to be the one we found first.” König watched closely as Andrea’s smirk shifted to a scowl. She stood there for a moment before she slowly sank to the ground, her hands resting behind her head. She kept her chin raised as she glared up at Ghost.

“Even if I told you everything I know, Luis is already ten steps ahead of you,” She declared, her words ringing with determination. “He's made the deal.”

“What deal? What is he planning to do?” König asked. Andrea turned to him, and that same smirk quickly reappeared. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Tch, fine, don’ tell us,” Gaz said, walking up to Andrea and standing behind her. He yanked on one of her arms, hauling her up to her feet, and clasped her hands behind her back. He leaned close to her ear. “But you will end up talking. One way or another.”

Andrea chuckled, turning her head slightly to peer at Gaz. ”Do you know why they call him 𝘌𝘭 𝘊𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳?” She leaned closer. “I'll tell you why. It's because he likes to cut the tongues off fuckers like you. Anything you do to me will be nothing.” She laughed, leaning away from Gaz.

“Get her out of ere’!” Ghost barked.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ride back to base was quiet. König sat on the plane in a seat huddled over in the corner, far away from Ghost. He didn’t feel like sitting through the same tension he had when they flew in.

It was dark outside, with only the lighting inside the cabin illuminating the space. Soap was across from him, leaning his head back against the cabin walls. Next to him sat Gaz, who was taking his gloves off, making himself as comfortable as he could until they landed back on base.

Roach sat next to Ghost, who was flanking the other side of Soap. They were both quiet, exhausted, and seemingly lost in their own worlds.

König thought of Andrea’s earlier words.

“𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘭.”

Just what had she meant by that? Was there some other reason why Price wanted them to capture her? Or was this the intel he had wanted on Luis? Either way, he knew it did him no good to question Price's motives. Though things at T.F. 141 seemed a little more loose on rules and regulations, that didn't change the fact that they were still special force operators. Price was his captain for the time being; he had no authority to question the man.

“Right, well, what are you all doing tonight when we get back?” Gaz suddenly asked.

“Nothing much,” Soap said. “‘Was maybe gonna rest up a bit. Why?”

“I was thinking we could all watch a movie, or somethin’. Have a li’le fun after our success tonight and celebrate this bloke here's return, ” Gaz said, nodding to Roach.

“Sure, I’m down,” Roach said.

“Same ere’,” Soap agreed easily, a grin settling on his face. Then he looked at Ghost and nudged his arm. “L.T.?” He asked, staring holes into the side of the man's mask.

“Not tonight,” Said mask wearer grumbled.

“Come on, L.T.,” Soap drawled. “We’ll even let you pick the movie,” he teased, looking at Gaz and Roach, who both nodded earnestly. Three peas in a pod, perfectly nsync.

Ghost huffed. “Fine,” He said.

“That's the spirit.” Soap looked over to König. “How bout you?”

König jumped a bit. He hadn’t been expecting to be invited. He looked between the four men and noticed the way the lieutenant’s hand was slightly clenched. Images from earlier of how relaxed Ghost had been when first greeting the sergeant and how well the whole team worked with Roach flashed through his mind. He felt a familiar twist in his stomach at the thought of him ruining tonight's movie by showing up.

“Nein, maybe another time,” König finally managed to say.

Soap frowned. “Are ye sure?” He asked.

“Yeah, you know we won't force ya, but it would be nice fer ya to come,” Gaz chimed in.

König shifted slightly, glancing over at Ghost and Roach, then back to Soap and Gaz. He took a deep breath. “I’m sure, Dankeshön, for the offer.”

“Ok, if you say so…,” Gaz said, sharing a look with Soap. König didn’t want to think about what that might entail.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they all stepped off of the transport, König trailing behind everyone else, he watched while Soap and Gaz talked, the words melting into the background noises of the aircraft’s engines slowly shutting off.

König idly watched them and watched the way Soap’s mouth quirked into a smirk at something Gaz said, smile lines disappearing into smooth skin, and it painstakingly reminded him of just how much of a gap resided between him and the bond those two shared. Of how little of a connection he had with everyone at the 141, for that matter.

He glanced over at Ghost and Roach, who were both listening in on whatever the other two were saying, with Roach giving his input and sliding in sparky comments when he deemed fit, while Ghost just grunted and hummed along, saying a word here and there.

It wasn't unusual for him to be distant from others when loaned to PMCs. He actually preferred it that way. But, for some reason, being here at 141 was different. For once, he found himself longing to be up there chatting with the Sergeant's—even if it would be more him listening than contributing.

It was strange to feel this sense of loneliness. He normally found solitude in the silence being by himself brought, but when he thought of it, since coming to the 141, he hadn’t been by himself for long periods of time. Gaz and Soap always seemed to find him and ask him to hang out or start up small conversations. König guessed somewhere along the way, in the few days he's been here, that he got used to it. Which was frightening.

Until now, he never really let himself think about how close he was allowing himself to get to Gaz and Soap; he hadn’t noticed how they seemed to slowly slip their way through the cracks in his defenses. And that scared him. He knew he had to get close to T.F. 141 if he wanted to help KorTac with their goal of establishing good relations with them, but at some point, whether he realized or not, it became more than that. And that was a problem.

In only less than nine months, he would be returning to KorTac and would most likely never be assigned to work with the 141 again. Any collaboration between the two units would most likely happen when he was already on another assignment, or they simply wouldn't need him.

Perhaps it was a good thing Roach arrived when he did. Now that he was here, König could see just how much he'd let himself succumb to the kindness Gaz and Soap had shown him and just how much his presence here was wrong. He wasn't needed at the 141. Unlike him, Gaz and Soap would most likely forget about him in less than a week once he returned to his rightful base. Ghost would probably go back to walking the halls without tensing every moment at the mere sight of him, and Roach, well, he didn't know the man well enough to say what he would do, but he'd probably spare the Austrian no lingering thoughts. Now was the time he should begin distancing himself. It was the wisest decision. If he waited any longer it would probably end up being too late.

Yes. That was what he was going to do from now on. It was the best option for everyone.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roach, along with Ghost, Soap, and Gaz, were all sitting in the rec room, each taking up spaces on the old couches, with Soap paired with Ghost and Roach sitting beside Gaz.

Roach looked next to him, noticing the slight crease in Gaz's eyebrows. He looked over to Soap, noticing he had a similar look of discomfort. If Roach had to guess, he'd say their sudden drop in enthusiasm had to do with König. It seemed like the two of them had gotten rather close to the Austrian since he arrived, and from what they shared about him when he'd asked more about him when first arriving, König seemed to be a good guy.

The same couldn’t be said for Ghost, though. He hadn’t had the time to ask, but Roach felt the tension from Ghost both when he'd gone to greet König and back in the chopper.

From the way both Soap and Gaz had handled the situation, something told him it wasn't a new occurrence.

It was obvious that König's decision not to join them today had been motivated by the fear of creating more tension with Ghost, and if he really had to guess, his arrival probably had something to do with it as well.

The Austrian was interesting. Seeing him standing next to Gaz when he'd gotten off the helicarrier, shoulders hunched and fingers slightly fidgeting at his sides. Roach could tell the other was a quiet one, similar to himself, from a mile away. But unlike him, König didn't seem to have a “chaotic” side as Gaz would say.

He had been surprised to hear from Price after his mission was done that there was a new member at T.F 141. It wasn't every day they got soldiers from their rival contractors. Especially from a team they’ve literally fought against—yet, now they had one of their own in their midst.

Gaz turned on the TV, nuzzling back into the coach, leaning his head on the back rest as he scrolled through the movie list.

“What do you think of ‘im?” The Brit asked after a moment.

“I think you were right,” Roach said.

“Mm, about?”

“I would've paid to see him flatten L.T. in the ring.”

Gaz cackled as Soap choked on the water he'd taken a sip of. Roach could feel Ghosts eyes boring into him, but at this point they had little to no effect on him.

“Hah, I knew ya would've loved to see it. Anything else?” Gaz asked.

Roach hesitated a moment, contemplating something before he sighed and looked pointedly over to Ghost as he asked, “Yeah, what's with the tension?”

The silence that followed was answer enough, both sergeants keeping their eyes fixed away from Ghost while Roach stared directly at the man. Gaz shifted a bit next to him.

“S’complicated,” Soap mumbled, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

Roach hummed. “Is it though? Cause from what I've seen, it seems like Ghost ere’ is being a bully.”

“What?” The man in question asked, his voice low and what most would consider threatning. Roach saw the way Ghost’s jaw tensed under the mask, but that did little to deter him.

“Look, I'm sure Soap and Gaz ere’ have been being nice by not calling you on yer shit, but I ain't gonna do tha. You're treatin’ the man like he killed your pet cat or something.”

“Roach—” Gaz tried to cut in, but Roach just held his hand up, effectively silencing the Britt.

“Look Si, I get you don’ trust easy, but ya ain't even given the man a chance. He seems like a gentle fella an’ you treatin’ him the way you are is just bloody cruel.”

“I'm leaving,” Ghost said, standing up.

“L.T. wait—” Soap started.

“Not now. I got paperwork to do,” Ghost bit out, with a little more snappiness than he’d meant to let out, immediately regretting it a bit. There was a twitch in Soap’s brow—annoyance. No one else asked him to stay as he walked out of the room. And that was how he preferred it.

“Sorry,” Roach said after a few minutes of silence. “Didn't mean to make things worse.”

“No don’ be. Someone had to say it,” Gaz sighed.

“He's got a point,” Soap agreed. “I've been trying to get L.T. to come around, but he just won't listen. I would've said something sooner, but…”

“He's not easy to call out, even when his glare no longer phases ya?” Roach finished.

“Yeah,” Soap agreed.

“Well, maybe now tha Roach ere’ chewed' em out, he'll get his head out of his arse,” Gaz joked.

Soap smirked. “Yeah, maybe,” he said, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. Gaz’s attempt to bring the mood up was good and appreciated, but it didn't erase the unsaid or 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 hanging in the air around them.

“Right, let's watch a movie, yeah?” Gaz said and turned back to the T.V.

“Just as long as it ain't one of your trashy romcoms,” Roach said.

Soap hummed in agreement.

Gaz gasped dramatically, bringing a hand to his heart. “‘𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘺’!? How dare you offend me like this! I'll have you know they are a masterpiece that touches the very soul.”

“Yeah sure. Whatever ya have to tell yourself to sleep better at night,” Soap said.

“Oh shut up. Like your taste in movies is any better!”

“My taste 𝘪𝘴 better.”

“Both of your movie tastes suck,” Roach said. “That's why I'm picking.” He snatched the remote out of Gaz’s hand.

“Hey!”

“Shut yer yabber. I'm the one who just got off over a month-long mission. I get to pick.”

The sounds of grumbles and whispered “yeah whatevers” filled the space around him as Roach clicked on a movie he knew both Gaz and Soap would hate.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

König barely managed to shift to the side as a lightning-fast jab came hurtling toward him. He managed to recover quickly though, and sent his own devastating blow crashing down onto Roach’s skull. The following sound that echoed caused the Austrian to freeze, nothing but regret and panic taking over. He knew he shouldn't have agreed to spar with the Sergeant, but after yesterday when he skipped out on the movie he had run into the Sergeant the next day at breakfast. He’d tried to turn around before Roach could see him, but the gods really did seem to hate him because before he could leave the Sergeant had called him over to join him and König for the life of him couldn't think of a reason to say 𝘯𝘰.

The rest of breakfast was spent with Roach, asking him a few questions to get to know him better, until Gaz and Soap saw them and invited themselves over. König had tried to excuse himself a few times but was never successful until he just decided to accept his fate and sit there.

The longer he sat there the more the conversation would shift between random things and the occasional bickering, all of which König quietly observed, only giving his input when addressed or curious. Eventually the constant shift in topics resulted in Roach asking him if he’d be willing to spar with him because, and König quotes, “anyone who can nearly take L.T. down is someone bloody worth fighting.” And him, being the people-pleaser he was, had said he would think about it.

“Think about it” apparently meant hunting him down after two days of hearing nothing from him and not so subtly hinting at wanting to spar. Roach even managed to rope Soap and Gaz into helping him (who he’d been avoiding quite expertly) which König doubted had been difficult. The two of them were always looking for some form of entertainment, and König was just their next victim.

Nothing new there.

What the Austrian meant by that wasn’t necessarily that Gaz and Soap were constantly looping him into their next scheme, but rather that his whole life he’s always found himself being someone's guinea pig. Back when he was the too-tall too-lanky teen listening to the voices of his classmates talking about him, 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 at him, and feeling his chest swell with anger, his fists 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨.

He distinctly remembered eighth grade, probably the one and only year his brother hadn’t gotten sick every other week which would result in him staying home to take care of him, allowing him to go to school.

He'd been in the library when a ginger boy walked up, asking if the seat across from him was taken. König had stumbled an embarrassing amount when saying the seat wasn’t taken and if the person really wanted to sit with him, they could, when really all he would have had to say was just no and get the exchange over with.

Despite his awkwardness the boy had just smiled and said “great” before taking the seat. König had thought that would be the end of their conversation but a few moments later the boy spoke again.

“My names Klaus by the way,” he had said.

König had tensed, his eyes snapping up to meet the boys, who were already looking at him. He’d swallowed before mumbling, “Anton.”

“Nice to meet you,” Klaus had said with a smile. A smile that could light up a whole city, at least König had thought so.

After that day, Klaus became his first and only friend. It was embarrassing that he could only say he’d had one friend throughout his entire teen years, but that was the sad truth.

At least he’d thought he had a friend.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

It was half way through the school year when König walked into the boys locker room, and he'd heard voices. He was just going to turn around and leave, not wanting to get made fun of in that particular moment, but then he heard it.

“Why do you hang around that freak, huh?” One voice had said, and König had instantly known it was a conversation about him. Before he could make his quick escape, the words only fueling his will to leave, he heard the responder's voice, and his blood ran cold.

“Who? Anton?” It had been Klaus, and König found himself rooted in place, heart hammering in his ears.

“Yeah, him,” The voice confirmed König’s suspicions of their conversation being about him.

He heard a locker shut before the words that haunted him for the remainder of the school year and still occasionally do echoed through the room.

“Because he’s gullible. I mean, all it took was me flashing him a smile and he instantly became wrapped around my finger. As if I would ever care for a freak like that.”

There were a few snickers in response to those words before Klaus continued.

“Want me to be real with you? I only did it because we share a homeroom teacher and she said if I became his friend she would talk to my coach about taking me off the bench. It worked, and now I’m back to being the best player on the field and have a nice little 𝘱𝘦𝘵 to play with. A win-win.”

König hadn’t stuck around longer to hear what the other person's response to that was. He didn’t need to. It was obvious the other would just laugh and add on to the mocking. He’d been so stupid to think anyone could ever want to be friends with him.

After that day, he resolved to never let another person get close to him like Klaus. It had worked until he’d become roommates with Horangi. The Korean was a hard man to distance yourself from when he was the only one who really made an effort to include you in things and ask how you were doing. Not to mention, he’d defended him more times than he could count from soldiers mocking him behind his back because of his height or overly obscured reasonings that he thought he was 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 than all of them. He may have never been there when the Korean was defending him, but—unlike what most thought—he did hear rumors.

At times, König thought Horangi viewed him like his little brother of sorts. Which was always a can of worms he decidedly would 𝘯𝘰𝘵 open.

It was frustrating the way the Korean was always there, a silent supporting presence. He was someone who could befriend just about anyone and yet still wasted time on someone like him.

For a long time, König had waited for the day when the Korean would just ditch him and lose interest, but he was always there, no matter how many times he was sure that a specific moment was 𝘵𝘩𝘦 moment. The moment the korean left.

To this day, König still waits, and regretfully, he will admit over time he has let the Korean in. Horangi is the one exception to his rule König has decided to make, and he constantly prepares himself for the day the man leaves.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. König didn’t want to do 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, and now here he was standing in front of Roach, who he just probably gave a severe concussion to and was never going to be spoken to by Soap, Gaz, or the man himself again. He didn’t want to think about what Ghost might do.

“Damn, Roach. König got ya good. Are you still conscious?” Gaz called from the sidelines with Soap snickering next to him.

“Heh, shut up, Gaz,” Roach said as he straightened himself and regained his balance, shaking his head a bit like a dog trying to shake water off. “You know I don’t go down that easy.”

Gaz just chuckled and flipped him the bird.

“You could have taken me down just then,” Roach said, snapping König’s attention back to him. “Should a’ taken it.”

Before König could even say anything, Roach was moving back, bombarding him with blow after blow. The Sergeant's hits weren’t nearly as strong as Ghost's, but they were fast. König could barely defend them off as they exchanged blow after blow, their bodies moving in a fluid dance of combat.

The shorter man was quick on his feet, his movements fluid and precise. Roach seemed to always counter König’s attacks with ease, his fists flying in a relentless barrage of punches and kicks.

In response, the Austrian relied on his strength and agility, delivering powerful blows that shook Roach to his core. He was like a bulldozer, unrelenting in his pursuit of victory. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Roach constantly sparred with Ghost he probably wouldn’t be able to withstand such heavy hits.

As the sweat poured down their bodies, both men showed no signs of slowing down. Their determination and focus were unwavering, and they continued to spar with increasing intensity. As a result Gaz and Soap’s cheers got louder, drawing more to the crowd beginning to form around the two soldiers.

Every punch and kick had a purpose, and every movement was calculated and precise. They were in perfect synchronization, each anticipating the other’s next move and countering with expert skill. König made sure to focus on his own movements just as much as Roach’s like Ghost had advised and tried to focus less on relying on his height.

The now decently sized crowd was in a frenzy, cheering and shouting out encouragement to their favorite fighter. None were as loud as Soap and Gaz though.

König didn’t really pay attention to who the two of them were cheering for; it was most likely Roach anyway. Besides, he was too lost in the heat of the battle, his body and mind fully immersed in the fight.

It was like a test of strength, agility, and strategy. Each of them trying to find a weakness in the other, constantly adapting and changing their approach.

After what seemed like an eternity, König finally managed to sweep Roach’s legs out from under him, and as the Sergeant went off his kilter, he moved in, forcing Roach to the ground and locking his bicep around his throat. It took only a minute before Roach was tapping on his arm in surrender.

The moment König let go, Roach gasped for breath and kneeled forward, landing on his hands and knees, hacking a few times as he took sputtering breath after breath.

“I—are you ok?” König asked, concern written all over his face. Not that anyone could tell with the hood. “Do you need help?”

“He’s fine,” Soap said, walking towards the Austrian with Gaz right next to him, the crowd dispersing behind him to return to their prior interests. “He just needs a moment to regain his breath. Trust me, your chokehold isn't a joke,” He finished with a grin.

“Yeah, you would know. I remember yer neck being bruised for like two days after he got a’ hold o’ ya,” Gaz joked. König flushed, his shoulders hunching as he glanced to the side ashamedly.

Soap chuckled. “König it’s fine. Don’t gotta feel guilty. I did break yer nose after all.”

“Wow, what am I chop liver?” Roach chimed in as he finally finished hacking up a lung. “Here I am on the ground dying and you two are making jokes.”

Gaz rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. You’re fine.”

“Says you. Pretty sure I got a concussion.”

“Sorry,” König mumbled, his shoulders hunching even more.

Roach leaned back, spreading his legs out in front of him as he leaned on one arm and brought the other up, waving his hand back and forth in dismissal. “Nah, don’ be mate. I’m fine. Just hurt that my life means so little to these numbskulls.”

“Maybe it’d mean more if ya didn’t call us numbskulls,” Soap said.

Roach grinned. “Just sayin’ the truth.”

Soap scoffed, rolling his eyes. “How bout you quit yer yapping and get to medical to have your head checked out. Clearly, it received some damage.”

Roach groaned and fell back to the floor. “Mate, I’m too exhausted to move. You’ve sparred against him, which means you know it's like being hit by a bulldozer. Besides, I'm hungry.”

“Fine, it's almost lunch anyway. How bout we all get something to eat and then take your whining ass to medical?” Gaz compromised.

Roach smiled. “Deal.”

Gaz turned to König. “You’re coming—” He cut himself off, looking around. “Where did König go?”

“Huh?” Soap said, as he looked around. “He was just ere’.”

“Maybe he had something to do?” Roach supplied.

“I— yeah maybe. Just would’ve thought he’d say something.”

Roach shrugged. “He doesn’t seem like much of a talker.”

“I mean you're not wrong,” Gaz said. “But he’s been….” the Britt trailed off.

“Distant?”

“Yeah,” Gaz agreed. He glanced over at Soap. “Do you have any idea why he’s been more flighty than normal?”

“No, I mean, at first I thought he was just havin’ a few bad days y’know, but now I’m starting to think it’s something else. It sorta feels like he’s avoiding me.”

Gaz nodded. “Yeah it’s been the same with me.”

“You think it’s my fault?” Roach asked.

“Wha—no!” Soap quickly said. “I mean, König isn’t exactly L.T.’s level of closed off but he’s definitely a bit closed off. I don’ really think it’s you specifically.”

“But you think it’s something?”

“Yeah.”

“Should we ask him what’s wrong?” Gaz wondered.

“Honestly, I don’t know the guy as well as you two, but I don’t think he’d be more inclined to open up if you tried prying it out of him.” Roach reasoned.

Gaz sighed. “You have a point. So, what do we do?”

“Let him come to you. I mean, König’s only going to open up to you if he wants to. Just let him know you're ere' for him, but don’t be overbearing,” Roach advised, like he was some wise wizard in an adventure-fantasy game, giving the MC important wisdom he's learned from years of experience.

“Damn, Roach. When the hell did you get so wise?” Gaz asked, chuckling.

Roach shrugged. “Maybe I’ve always been this way and you were to blind to notice.”

Soap laughed. “Alright ya cheeky bastard. Get up so we can eat and get you to medical.”

“Like your one to talk,” Gaz grumbled as Roach dramatically groaned but complied as he very slowly raised himself from the ground and stood. He stretched a bit, a popping noise being heard from his spine, resulting in him letting out a content sigh before hissing and bringing a hand to his head.

“On second thought let's go to medical first. I need aspirin,” Roach said.

“You ok?” Soap asked, eyebrows drawing together in worry.

“Yeah, I just got a headache.”

“Alright, if ya start to feel nauseous say something, alright?”

Roach gave a thumbs up.

“Oh, and, uh, thanks,” Soap mumbled.

“For what?”

“The, y'know, advice,” he clarified.

“Oh, crap I almost forgot to say that,” Gaz said. He turned to Roach. “Thanks for that. Honestly don’ know what we’d do without ya. Not only are ya putting Ghost in his place but also being our advisor.”

“You’d all fall apart at the seams without me, obviously,” Roach joked. “But it’s no problem, really. König seems nice and you're clearly worried bout him so I figured I’d give you my opinion on the matter.”

“Knew I shouldn’t have thanked ya. Now your heads even bigger than it was before,” Gaz mumbled, earning a whack to the arm from Roach.

“Ow!” Gaz said and rubbed his arm, glaring at Roach.

Soap laughed before yelping as Gaz kicked him in the shin in retaliation.

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The next few days were similar. König would disappear without any word to anyone or use an excuse to get out of something. Gaz and Soap never said anything about it, deciding to follow Roach’s advice. But it was starting to weigh on them, only ever running into the Austrian at the mess hall occasionally or, on a rarer occasion, at the gym.

Anytime they tried to ask him to hang out, he would instantly make up some excuse or just bolt before they had the chance to say more.

König knew he couldn’t keep this up forever and knew if he kept it up at this intensity, it could risk KorTac’s relations with T.F. 141, but he also knew if he allowed himself to be around them for more than a few moments at a time, they’d bypass his defenses. So until he could get his walls thoroughly rebuilt, he just couldn't risk hanging around the two Sergeants'.

Of course, it seemed like the universe hated him because, despite it being in the later hours of the day, where most weren't around the cafeteria anymore, there was not only Gaz and Soap but Ghost and someone else as well, all huddled at a table playing cards.

He watched as Soap laughed at something the mystery man said, the smile lines around his cheeks growing wider. He must have been standing there for too long because the next thing he knew, there was a loud scrape against the floor as Gaz shot up from his seat.

“König!” he said, waving his arm to beckon the Austrian over. “You should come join us!”

König tensed. Crap. He glanced around the table, seeing eight pairs of eyes all focused on him. Soap was smiling at him—that smile that could make anyone feel welcome. Ghost only spared him a single glance, and the mystery man nodded his head in agreement, his own smile present, which brought out his dimples.

König focused on the man sitting at the table. He seemed…familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he'd seen him before. His eyes were hooded and slightly slanted, resting beneath strong eyebrows. His hair was light brown, almost blond, and he had dull blue eyes.

His frame was lean and yet muscular, very similar to Roach’s. Wait…. König's eyes slightly widened. He looked closer at the man's nose, more specifically the bridge, and, yep. That was Roach without the mask and eye covering all right.

He felt a brief sense of panic wash over him as he wondered if he was allowed to see the Sergeant like this, face out in the open, but relaxed as he looked at the smile Roach had, nothing but inviting and kind.

He exhaled softly, his shoulders loosening. It seemed the Sergeant wasn't like him and Ghost in that aspect.

“König? You a'right?” The Austrian blinked and looked away from Roach to face Soap, who had a small frown on his face, eyebrows slightly drawn together in worry.

“Sorry, what?” König asked.

“Uh, we asked if you wanted to join us for a game o’ cards an' you zoned out, goin’ all quiet. You ok?” Gaz asked.

König nodded his head. “I am fine, Sergeant. There is no need for any concern.”

Gaz slightly flinched at the usage of his title, but other than that he gave no indication he was hurt by König's words. Instead, he put up a silly front of being mock suspicious and squinted his eyes, all the while studying König. “Ok… if you say so,” he said slowly. Then added, “Anyway, are ya?”

“Am I?”

“Goin’ to play.” Gaz clarified.

“Oh, uh,” König frantically looked around at the soldiers. He didn't want to intrude, but he didn't have a good enough excuse as to why he couldn't participate. Just as he started to go into a full-on spiral on how to get out of this, a exasperated sigh followed by a familiar, deep British accent cut through his thoughts.

“If you don't want to, just say so. But,” Ghost sighed, his voice lowering a bit. “We could...use another player.”

König stared dumbfoundedly at Ghost. It looked like it had physically pained him to ask him to join, but König didn't think he was the kind of man who said things he didn't mean.

The Austrian glanced one more time at the soldiers surrounding the rest of the table, catching Soap giving Ghost the most fond yet proud look he'd ever seen. Realizing he didn't have much of a choice anymore, he let out a defeated sigh, and made his way over and sat in the chair beside Gaz. He kept his eyes firmly pointed away from the masked man in front of him.

“Glad ya decided to join us König,” Roach said. “You know how to shuffle?”

“‘Shuffle’?” He asked.

“Yeah, y’Know mixing up a deck of cards?”

“Oh, ja.”

“Good, then its yer turn.” Roach handed the cards over to König. “I swear I don't know how you an’ me are the only ones who can shuffle around ere’.”

"Hey, I can shuffle!” Soap huffed.

“Yeah, poorly you mean,” Gaz snarked.

“Shut up. At least I don't 'ave t’ set them on the table and jumble them around before putting them back in a pile.”

“Hey, that's a very tough skill to master, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, must've taken ya years to master,” Soap mumbled with an eye roll.

"See what I 'ave t’ put up with?” Roach asked, making a show of sounding disappointed and exhausted as he gestured to the two bickering Sergeants.

“Like yer any better,” Ghost joked.

“Hey! I'll have you know I'm much more mature than those hooligans,” Roach defended.

“Sure you are,” Ghost deadpanned.

König felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips under the hood as he watched the table begin to erupt into trivial bickering. It was particularly nice seeing the lieutenant relaxed, or at least more relaxed around him than he normally was, and joking around. Until two seconds ago, König didn't even know he 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 joke.

Maybe, just maybe, he was starting to fit in with the 141 after all.

Chapter Text

The solid oak door, a barrier designed for privacy, instead amplified his arrival. The click, sharp and definitive, resonated with the finality of a gavel striking wood. It sliced through the hushed murmurs of the conference room, instantly drawing all attention like iron filings to a powerful magnet.

König felt the collective pivot before he even registered it consciously. Twelve pairs of eyes, not just looking, but drilling into him. An array of gazes—some frankly critical (cough, cough 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵), others thinly veiled with impatience (Price), a few disturbingly blank—converged into a single, unignorable weight. He swallowed, a dry, intractable lump forming in his throat. The brief, almost imperceptible tremor in his hand, hidden from view as he dropped it to his side, was the only outward sign of the apprehension churning within him.

The polished floor seemed to stretch for miles between the door and the imposing table that dominated the centre of the room. Every measured step König took felt disproportionately loud, an unwanted drumbeat in the sudden, oppressive silence. He could feel the heat rising on his neck, despite the cool, conditioned air that typically made this space feel sterile and impersonal. Today, it felt like a spotlight, every imperfection magnified.

He knew he was going to be the last one to make it here and was expecting to have the full scrutiny of everyone's attention, but that didn’t make it any better.

He had been coming back from an early workout—nothing fancy, just a few reps on the weights and a quick run on the treadmills—while the gym was still barren of soldiers, but before he could get in the shower to wash the built-up sweat away, he’d been called to the briefing room. This meant he didn’t get to shower; he only had enough time to quickly change his shirt and throw on his hood before making his way as quickly as possible to the briefing room, which just so happened to be on the other side of the base.

So to say his day was off to a bad start was an understatement. He not only had to skip out on a shower and slightly jog through the (thankfully) empty halls, but he also had to walk into the briefing room last, which meant all attention was on him. And he had to sit there with sweat-slicked hair sticking to his face under his mask. All of this happening at 4:02 in the morning. Not that it was unusual for him to be found awake this early—it was one of the few times he could do what he wanted without someone looking at him or interrupting, after all, but that didn’t change the fact that his day was already destined to be bad.

König took a deep breath and finally looked around, spotting Roach and Gaz near the head of the table two seats away from him. Neither man said anything, but each gave their own form of greeting. He nodded in acknowledgment before glancing across the table at Soap and Ghost, the Scot giving a small grin and wave while the Brit instantly turned his gaze away, like König lost all and any interest he’d managed to pique.

König internally sighed. The lieutenant didn’t stare at him like he was expecting him to attack any minute he looked away anymore, but that didn’t change the fact that Ghost still acted disinterested and cold about anything having to do with him. He had hoped that Ghost welcoming him to play cards would mean the masked man was finally opening up to him being here at the 141, but it seemed that was just wishful thinking.

At this point, he should just be thankful Ghost was being nicer at all and not dwell on it. There really wasn’t any point in trying to ask for anything more from the lieutenant anyway.

“Right, now that everyone's ere’,” Price began, drawing everyone's attention to him as he set down a laptop on the table. On the screen, there was a woman sitting in an office chair wearing a vest. She had short, light brown hair, and an air of authority that König could feel radiating through the screen. It made him sit slightly straighter.

Price stepped back from the computer and stood directly behind it, crossing his arms. “Tell them what you told me, Laswell,” He continued.

“Right.” The woman’s voice, who König just learned was called Laswell, crackled through the laptop. “Two weeks ago, you were sent on a capture or kill job to retrieve Andrea Varona. In those two weeks, she’s been under constant surveillance and interrogation. It took longer than we had hoped, but we were finally able to get her to reveal what deal El Cortador made."

The video showed Laswell reach forward and press something on her keyboard before the screen flickered from her to images of faces, documents, weapons, and buildings before settling on a woman's photo. The women had short black hair, olive skin, and eyes that reminded König of a predator's gaze right before it went for the kill.

“As I’m sure most of you know, the woman in this photo is Valeria Garza, also known as El Sin Nombre, head of the Las Almas Cartel, which specializes in drug trade."

König instantly felt the atmosphere in the room shift the moment that photo appeared on the screen.

It was so prominent, it was like he could hear the anonymous music playing in the background as some huge reveal was just brought down on them—almost like they were the main cast of a movie, everyone growing tense around him. He noticed through his peripheral that a specific Scottsman in particular grew much more tense, watching as Soap’s hand on the table turned to a fist and his jaw clenched. He didn't need to be told to know that there was history here with T.F. 141 and El Sin Nombre. And if he had to take a wild guess, it must not have ended very well. Not that it took a genius to figure that one out considering everyone’s reactions, especially Soap’s

“Andrea's intel tells us that a few months ago, after escaping prison, Valeria made contact with Luis, wanting to establish a relationship in the drug trade business. Part of that deal was to help him smuggle his new drug, known as Tranquil,” The screen shifted from the picture of Valeria to a picture of a pill. The pill was medium-sized and circular, with a base layer of teal blue and two stripes in the middle, one yellow and the other red. “to regions all over the U.S.” The screen flickered to cities circled in red all around the U.S., each being high in population, places like Chicago, New York, San Diego, Houston, Dallas, L.A., and more.

“Intel on the side effects of these pills isn't very well known. What we do know is that the user, after their first intake of Tranquil, much like its name suggests, feels as though they are "floating," and any worries they have just “melt away,” leaving them in an endless state of euphoria until they come crashing down as the effects wear off. Sounds like a nice time, right? Well, what those who take the pills don’t know is that Tranquil is highly addictive, and with each intake, they need to take more to feel the same high they did the first time until they reach the point of overdosing.”

“Bloody hell…” Ghost murmured under his breath. König didn’t think he could have said it any better. It was bad enough having drugs like tobacco, marijuana, and heroin on the streets, but now adding in a new drug that was not only highly addictive and what most people looked for when wanting to take drugs but was also practically guaranteed to make you overdose? Now that was practically bringing the drug trade businesses to a whole new level. It was no wonder why Valeria wanted access to something like that.

The screen changed back to Laswell, who was now sitting with her back completely straight and her eyes pointedly sharp as she glanced around at the soldiers surrounding the table.

“I’m sure, as most of you have realized, we cannot let Valeria get a hold of this drug. That is why we are sending you all to Las Almas to team up with Mexican Special Forces colonel Alejandro Vargas and sergeant Rodolfo Parra.”

“We’ll be flying out in ten,” Price began once it was clear Laswell was done talking. “I’m sure most of you here have mixed feelings about what went down last time we were in Las Almas, but whatever those feelings are, you need to push them aside. Your goal is this mission, not getting revenge on Valeria. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” was heard around the table in nearly perfect unison.

“Right, go get ready then.”

The sounds of chairs scooting across the floor filled the room, and König stood, moving to walk around the table and out the door. As he exited the doorway, he couldn’t help but overhear Roach’s voice calling out for Soap to speak to him for a quick minute. The Austrian turned, watching as Soap stopped walking down the hallway to acknowledge Roach and ask what was up. Roach looked around before pulling Soap down another hall.

Now, König usually wasn’t one to eavesdrop when he saw things like this happen, which, admittedly, he did see a lot—perks of being a silent observer, he presumed—but, from the way Soap had been acting earlier, he found his body moving on its own free will to stand against the wall just before you would take the turn down the other hall as he listened to whatever it was Roach and Soap were talking about.

“—was the mission that you and Gaz told me about, right? The one where you all found out about Graves and Shepherd's dirty laundry?” The Austrian heard Roach’s voice ask.

He could hear someone sigh, presumably Soap, before he heard the Scottsman say, “Yeah, that’d be the one.”

“Are you ok? I noticed you were pretty tense back there,” Roach said.

"Yeah, M’fine, just…” Soap let out a long sigh as König heard what sounded like the Scottsman’s back slumping against the wall. ”I wanna punch something, y’know?”

The Austrian could clearly imagine Roach nodding in agreement as he said, “Right, understandable. I can't say I don’ want to throw a few punches myself. I know I wasn’t there, but after hearing what happened, all I had wanted to do for weeks was find those sick bastards and give them a piece of my mind.”

König heard Soap let out a chuckle. “Yeah, well sorry to say there's only one sick bastard left for you to take yer revenge on.”

Roach snickered. “Hey, don't you dare apologize for tha. You sent Graves to the bloody grave, like he damned deserved. Now we just gotta find Shepherd and give him what he fuckin’ deserves.”

“Trust me, when I find that backstabber he’s gonna wish he’d never crossed us.”

“I don’ doubt it. But for now we can’t focus on that. You heard what Price said, any personal feelings need to stay out of the field.”

Soap sighed. “Aye, I know. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Valeria.”

“Huh?”

Soap let out a frustrated grumble. “She bloody out right told me she wouldn’t stay behind bars, and now ere’ she is reappearing, once again connected with something that could take thousands o' lives.”

König heard Roach's voice soften as he spoke his next words. “I hear you. But people like her are always goin’ to be causing trouble. Our job is to be there when they do and put a bloody stop to it. That's what you did. Wha' happened once you left wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but that doesn’t—”

“Change the fact you still feel pissed and guilty, I know. So how about we use that anger and go stop her, aye? We have to get goin’ before Price rips us a new one for bein’ late anyways.”

Soap groaned. “Dammit, I bloody hate when you’re right.”

Roach laughed. “Well you better get used to it. Now let's go.”

König listened as footsteps echoed down the hall, and only when he was sure they were gone did he round the corner, staring down the now barren hallway. He wasn’t sure exactly what the whole story was here, and he definitely wasn’t going to try and pry any further than he already had. Whatever happened was something he had no business getting involved in, and yet he still hadn't tried to stop himself from listening.

He could try and say it was because he was worried about Soap, but that wasn’t the full truth. Sure, he’d gone over there because he was concerned about the Scottsman, but Soap had said he was fine within a few seconds of him listening, and Roach—who Soap’s known a lot longer than him and would most likely feel more comfortable around—was checking on him. There was no reason for him to stick around after that other than what was only the ugly truth that he’d wanted to satisfy his curiosity.

𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦, the Austrian thought and sighed. He should have just kept walking, but instead he decided to eavesdrop, and now all he was left with was nothing but more questions and a sickening knot in his stomach.

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Dust lingered in the air as the aircraft's engines slowed to a halt and the propellers howled. Power from the wind rippled through his body and beat against his skull like a drum. König squinted, taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust from the darkened cabin to the bright sunlight shining down on him with every step he took down the ramp.

He was one of the the first to step off, walking alongside Ghost and Price while Gaz, Soap, and Roach lingered behind them.

A lean, muscular man walked up, a grin wide across his face. “Long time no see Ghost, Soap,” he said, his voice heavily accented. He was tall, about the same height as the lieutenant, give or take an inch, with black slicked-back hair and a stubble beard. He turned towards Price, nodding his head slightly in greeting. "Price, it is a pleasure to see you again. I only wish it was under better circumstances.” The man extended a hand. Price took it without hesitation.

“You and I both,” Price said.

The man turned towards the Austrian and held out his hand. “Names Alejandro. You must be 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨, correct?”

König accepted Alejandro's hand, giving it a firm shake. “Ja, it is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“The pleasures all mine. Welcome to the 'City of Souls.' I’ve heard about your skills. I can't wait to see them for myself.”

Before König could think of a way to respond, a low whistle echoed across the landing pad. He turned, watching as a man who was slightly shorter than Alejandro and had black hair shaved on the sides walked up.

“Damn you're tall. What are they feedin’ you hermano?” The man teasingly asked.

“Bloody huge, ain't he?” Gaz piped up, a grin spreading wide across his face.

“Damn right he is,” the man agreed, raking his eyes up and down König’s body. The Austrian slightly tensed, a flush spreading across his face under his hood at the sudden attention. "Maybe we should hire you to join Las Almas for a bit. We certainly could use someone with your build."

"Sorry, mate, but he's not for sale," Soap cut in, his voice having an underlying bite to it. The man seemed to pick up on that as a small grin spread across his face. He looked ready to say something, but was quickly stopped by Alejandro.

“Alright that's enough,” Alejandro cut in, slightly smacking the man's shoulder. “Sorry about him. This is my second in command. Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra.”

König nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Rodolfo said with a smile, then turned his attention towards Roach who was standing slightly behind the Austrian.

“And who’s this?”

“Name’s Roach,” the Sergeant said and walked forward, extending a hand.

“Welcome to Las Almas,” Rodolfo said.

The low grumble of someone clearing their throat drew everyone's attention away from the two Sergeants. “Now that everyone’s been introduced, let's get to business,” Price said.

Alejandro nodded his head. “Right,” He agreed and gestured his head towards a few black wrangler jeeps parked behind him. “Let’s get going then.”

Everyone followed closely behind Alejandro to the vehicles as König silently trailed behind. He watched as Price, Soap, and Ghost got into one vehicle and Alejandro and Rodolfo went to another.

He hesitated a moment, wondering which one he was supposed to get into before he felt something tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Roach looking up at him. “It looks like you’re riding with me,” He said, his voice light and inviting. “You coming or what?”

“Oh, Ja,” The Austrian nodded his head. “I am coming.“ He said and quickly followed Roach towards the Jeep Alejandro and Rodolfo got into.

He slightly ducked as he got into the jeep, having to stay slightly hunched to fit inside. It wasn’t uncommon with his height to have to keep his form small but it never made it any less uncomfortable.

“Maldita sea, es alto,”^[7] Rodolfo muttered under his breath from behind the steering wheel.

“Si, es un gigante,”^[8] Alejandro responded. Then he turned towards the soldiers in the back. “Either of you speak Spanish?” He asked.

"Sí, y estoy de acuerdo. El es alto,”^[9] Roach said, and König could just hear the grin that was surely behind the Sergeant's pulled up black neck gaiter. He shifted slightly, feeling his cheeks warm.

“Nein,” he muttered, embarrassment evident in his tone. He was very thankful for his hood right about now.

“Well, can’t say I was expecting the Sergeant here to already know some Spanish,” Alejandro said, glancing over at Roach and smirking. “But don’t worry König. You’ll know the language soon enough.”

Something about the way Alejandro said 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 sent a small shiver up the Austrian’s spine, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the feeling before the car ignition started and they were driving through the streets.

As they drove, König watched through the windows as houses that all looked beat down passed by and people smoked in groups on the streets, staring at the line of cars following Alejandro's, each one seeming sinister. He's seen plently of places just like this before, but it never made the sight seeing any less nerve racking.

A car flew by, one filled with people holding guns. Before either of the visiting soldiers could do anything, Alejandro was saying, “Tranquilo, that's normal. I’m not sure if your friends told you, but Las Almas isn’t exactly your friendly neighborhood. There are very few police who uphold the law anymore. Anyone who tries to resist corruption disappears, or if they're highly trained like the military, they're recruited.”

“And you’re the exception?” Roach asked.

Alejandro chuckled. “Si, we grew up here. We’re known as Los vaqueros…the cowboys. This is our home. No matter how fucked up. And we will die fighting for it.”

Roach hummed. “I can respect that.”

“Look over there,” Rodolfo pointed with one finger at the side of the street. On the sidewalk, there were people wearing skull balaclavas holding guns and handing out ice cream to little kids; their masks reminded König of the lieutenants, only their skulls weren't seemingly sewn on like Ghost’s was.

“Narcos use generosity to win over the people. It's why Valeria's influence is so strong,” Rodolfo explained.

“They focus on the children, ja?” König asked.

“Si,” Alejandro agreed. “They are the most impressionable. Get to them young, and it makes her job all that much easier. Though it seems you already figured that out.”

König hummed. "I've seen many places like this one. It is sad, but children always seem to be the main target for corruption."

Alejandro glanced at him through the rearview mirror, a look König couldn't quite describe in his eyes. "Si, it is a very sad truth."

The jeep rolled past an alleyway littered with garbage like broken bottles and old cigarette containers, along with bloodied cloth that had words and markings scattered across it.

“What's with the sheets?” Roach asked.

“Cartels' way of marking Valeria's territory. It's the only warning you get,” Alejandro explained.

“Bloody disgusting…,” Roach murmured.

Alejandro sighed. “Las Almas is littered with death. But we're trying to change that. And the best way to do that is to take down Valeria.”

“Well then, it's a bloody good thing you have the 141 on your side.”

Alejandro chuckled. "Trust me, I know."

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The cars came up to a rolling stop in front of Fuerzas Especiales. The sounds of doors slamming and clicking shut echoed as the group of soldiers headed in. The base was large, just like the 141's, and König was extremely grateful that this time around he had Alejandro to guide him to where he needed to go.

A metal door hissed shut behind them, sealing the group within a room that, as suspected, bore a striking resemblance to Price’s usual briefing quarters. The familiar hum of ventilation and the sterile efficiency of the space were immediately apparent, a setting designed for focus and grim determination. König, with his towering frame, navigated the space with surprising ease, taking a seat next to Gaz, who in turn sat beside Roach and Price. Their collective gazes settled across the table, where Soap, Ghost, and Rodolfo had already positioned themselves. It was a familiar tableau, the calm before the storm of mission planning, yet something was subtly, yet profoundly, different.

Price, the stoic pillar of countless mission briefings, the man whose gravelly voice usually commanded the room from his standing position at the head of the table, was seated. It was an almost jarring sight for König, who had grown accustomed to the powerful, almost immovable presence Price exuded when outlining mission parameters, his hands often braced on the table, his eyes fixed on the intelligence. Price, a captain, was usually the orchestrator, the leader, the primary voice of authority in these settings.

But at the head of the table, commanding the space with an understated authority, stood Alejandro Vargas. His movements were smooth, deliberate, as he held the large blueprints, his dark, sharp eyes scanning the faces around the table before he spread the papers with a precise, almost clinical motion. There was no nervous fidgeting, no unnecessary gestures. His shoulders were broad, his back straight, an almost primal stillness about him that spoke volumes.

The air around him thrummed with a quiet intensity, a palpable sense of a man who had not merely read about conflict but had, quite literally, bled for it. König, a man who understood the language of the battlefield perhaps better than any other, recognized it instantly. This was a man forged in fire, holding himself with an unquestionable strength, a leader in his own right. König acknowledged, internally, that Alejandro must be incredibly strong, not just physically, but in his resolve and leadership.

A logical part of König's mind immediately supplied the reason for this unusual arrangement. Colonel Vargas outranked Captain Price. In the rigid hierarchy of military command, it made perfect, undeniable sense for the highest-ranking officer to lead the critical briefing, especially given the nature of this joint operation on Alejandro’s home turf. Yet, the innate familiarity of Price’s usual stance, the way his presence traditionally filled that space, had ingrained itself so deeply that its absence felt like a minor glitch in the established order of the world. It didn't make the situation wrong, merely… peculiar.

As Alejandro’s gaze settled, he moved with an efficient grace, securing the corners of the blueprints to the polished surface of the table. The rustle of the paper, the almost clinical precision of his movements, signaled the true start of their task. His voice, a low rumble, cut through the quiet hum of the room, drawing all attention to the detailed schematics before them.

“This warehouse is where the deal between El Sin Nombre and El Cortador is suspected to take place,” he explained, his finger tracing a path across the blueprints. Parts of the building were already circled in bold red, marking critical spots like potential entry points, strategic vantage points, and crucial escape routes. “We'll infiltrate in two teams. Team one is Captain Price, Gaz, Rudy, and Roach. Team two is Soap, König, me, and Los vaqueros."

Alejandro pulled out another blueprint and placed it beside the previous one. “Ghost will be on this building 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦,” He pointed to another storage facility. ”opposite to our target. He'll be based on the roof as our eyes and ears.”

Alejandro pointed back to the original blueprints, his finger tracing lines that represented their target’s probable movements and the intricate layout of the compound. “The moment Ghost has eyes on both El Sin Nombre and El Cortador we’ll move in. Team two will enter through the back as team one goes in on the East side. Team two will focus on securing Valeria and team one will focus on Luis. Be advised, I'm sure both Luis and Valeria will have some of their best men with them.”

A silence, thick with anticipation and the weight of the coming operation, settled over the room. Alejandro’s gaze, sharp and assessing, swept across each face in turn, a silent command for absolute understanding. “Does everyone understand the plan?”

“Yes, sir,” a chorus of voices resonated, near-perfect in its synchronicity, a testament to the training and discipline of the elite soldiers assembled.

A brief, almost imperceptible, grin touched Alejandro’s lips. “The meeting is suspected to happen around 20:00, that's two hours from now. Until then, make yourselves at home.”

The pronouncement acted as a release. The taut atmosphere dissipated into a flurry of motion. The crisp sound of paper scuffling against the long, polished conference table was quickly joined by the rasping drag of chairs scooting across the tiled floor as everyone stood. The room, moments ago a crucible of strategic planning, transformed into a hub of low chatter and individual preparations.

König, still absorbing the new faces and the unfamiliar surroundings of the Vaqueros’ Operating Base, watched for a moment. His eyes drifted to a far corner where Gaz, Roach, and Soap had already gravitated, huddling in a tight, familiar circle with Alejandro and Price. Assumedly, they were catching up, the casual camaraderie a stark contrast to the rigid professionalism of the briefing. A fresh wave of adrenaline from the mission briefing still hummed beneath his skin, urging him to channel it into something productive. He was about to go off on his own, perhaps to try and get a feel for the new base, map out the quickest routes to various sections, or find a quiet place to review the intel, but he was stopped.

“König,” the voice was a low rumble, accompanied by the distinct rustle of a uniform. Rodolfo, the Sergeant Major, stood beside him, a friendly, conspiratorial smile playing on his lips. “Little Birdie told me you took down Ghost.”

A flush crept up König’s neck, a familiar mix of pride, embarrassment, and mild exhaustion. “Oh, uh,” he stammered, shifting his considerable weight from one foot to the other. Seriously? How did Rodolfo even know about that? They’ve only been here for no more than thirty minutes, and more than half of that was the briefing itself. Besides, it was just a simple sparring match back at base, more a strategic maneuver than an outright brawl. Which, König would admit, was a pretty cool feat to have associated with his name; he had almost taken down the Ghost of T.F. 141 after all. But that didn't change the fact that it was starting to get tiring to hear about it all the time. “Nein. I didn't exactly—”

“There is no need to be modest, Amigazo,” Rodolfo interrupted, his smile widening, a genuine warmth in his dark eyes. “You may not have won, but I’ve seen him fight firsthand. Even taking him down the way you did is a victory.”

König sighed quietly, the battle against the compliment already lost. There was no point in trying to argue with the sergeant, whose conviction was as steady as a mountain. It was better to just accept the compliment and move on. “I—Dankeschön,” he managed, the German word escaping almost on instinct.

“‘Dankeschön’?” Rodolfo tilted his head slightly, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “Does that mean thank you?”

“Oh, ja. Sorry, I forget that not everyone knows–” König began, feeling a fresh wave of awkwardness.

“No, it’s fine,” Rodolfo said with a dismissive wave of his hand, a soft chuckle escaping him. “In case you didn’t notice earlier, me and Alejandro do that all the time.” His gaze flickered towards the corner where Alejandro was still deep in conversation, a shared understanding passing between them, even from a distance.

“Oh, ok. Danke,” König replied, still not quite sure what else to say to that.

Rodolfo chuckled again, a rich sound. “Say, your call sign’s a German word, si?”

“Ja. It is.”

“What’s it mean?”

“I’ve been wonderin’ tha too,” Gaz chimed in, suddenly appearing beside Rodolfo, Roach a silent shadow behind him. They must have sensed an opening in the conversation, drifting closer from their huddle. “What does it mean?”

König hesitated for a moment. He still wasn't too fond of telling others the meaning of his call sign, the word itself heavy with the weight of expectation and his own lingering insecurities. But after his surprisingly easy exchange with Soap on his first day with the 141, he felt a bit more comfortable sharing its meaning. He’d also gotten time to know Gaz, who seemed to be just as accepting and straightforward as Soap, and though he didn't know Roach or Rodolfo as well, if Gaz and Soap liked them, then at the very least he was sure they wouldn’t openly be judgmental towards him. The trust, however tentative, was growing.

“It means king,” he said, his voice dropping slightly at the end, almost a murmur against the ambient hum of the base.

“‘King’, huh? That’s a bloody cool call sign. Wouldn’t ya say Roach?” Gaz asked, nudging Roach playfully in the side with his elbow.

Roach nodded in agreement, a barely perceptible movement of his head, before elbowing Gaz back with a surprising amount of force.

“Ow, hey! I didn’t even jab ya that hard,” Gaz exclaimed, rubbing his side dramatically.

Roach merely shrugged, his shoulders conveying a silent, smug satisfaction. König could almost feel the shit-eating grin that was no doubt plastered across the usually silent man’s face beneath his neck gaiter.

“You’re a little shit, y’know tha'?” Gaz said, giving Roach a half-hearted glare that was more theatrical than genuinely annoyed.

Roach lifted his hand and, with deliberate slowness, flipped Gaz off; clearly, he wasn’t bothered by the sergeant’s glare in the slightest.

“Uh, is there a reason he’s not talking?” Rodolfo asked, a hint of genuine confusion in his tone.

“Not really. Sometimes he just doesn’t feel like it,” Gaz said nonchalantly, as if Roach’s selective mutism was as normal as the sun rising.

“Or maybe I just don’t think you’re worth the oxygen it takes to respond,” Roach chimed in, the sudden sound of his voice, low and dry, cutting through the air with unexpected wit.

König coughed, trying to cover up the amused chuckle that wanted to escape him as Gaz gasped in mock offense. “That’s it! We’re no longer friends. You hear me? I will not stand this abuse any longer,” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in theatrical exasperation.

“Oh, please. You’ve said it yourself; you need me. Besides, we both know there is only so much of Soap you can handle on your own,” Roach retorted, his tone unwavering, implying a long history of enduring Soap’s particular brand of chaos.

Gaz grumbled, rolling his eyes as a faint, reluctant smile played on his lips. “Yeah, whatever, smartass.”

“It seems like you’re all getting along well,” Alejandro said, his voice warm, coming to stand in front of the group of bickering soldiers. He’d presumably concluded his conversation with Price.

“Sí. son bastante entretenidos,”^[10] Rodolfo said with a wide grin, glancing at the others before settling his gaze back on Alejandro.

“I can see that,” Alejandro replied, a twinkle in his eye as he took in the dynamic. “I came over to let you all know dinner is in five. Rodolfo, I’m sure you can show them where the cafeteria is?”

“Yeah, we’ll meet you there,” Rodolfo confirmed, already turning slightly as if eager to lead the way.

Alejandro nodded. “Alright then.” He gave them a final, approving look before heading towards another part of the base, leaving the newfound quartet to their still-chattering banter and the promise of a shared meal.

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The next two hours were relatively quiet after that. At least for König, they were. He noticed Roach, Soap, Gaz, and Rodolfo messing around and bickering with one another more often than not. Although it always seemed to be Rodolfo on the sidelines watching as the other three bickered and König had a sneaking suspicion, it was him who caused most of the chaos.

Price, Ghost, and Alejandro weren’t very far when the sergeants were gathered, always content to just watch from a distance and step in when the bickering got out of hand. Alejandro always seemed more amused, in König’s opinion, while Ghost seemed disinterested and Price acted more like a tired dad trying to keep his kids in check.

When the three weren't keeping an eye on the sergeants, they seemed to talk about old mission stories or details on the upcoming mission.

König never tried joining them when Price welcomed him over or Alejandro tried to start a conversation, always keenly aware of Ghost’s presence and how his own put the lieutenant on edge. He was sure Price and Alejandro noticed, but thankfully, they never said anything.

For the most part, he spent most of his time in a small rec room he found in the base, reading books from the bookshelf. There weren't many in English, but the ones he did manage to find were pretty good reads. It was a welcome distraction from the other soldiers around Alejandro's base who were constantly whispering—no doubt about him.

Before long, it was time to fly out.

König met up with everyone on the helipad: Price, Alejandro, Rodolfo, and Roach, already on the chopper, while he and Ghost waited for Soap and Gaz. It was awkward standing out there with Ghost by himself, but thankfully he was more focused on the fact that he'd managed to arrive a few minutes before Soap and Gaz—which surprised him considering they'd been to this base before unlike him.

Still, it wasn't long before he was being greeted by the Brits and Scottsman’s matching grins as they walked over to the rest of the group.

“Let's do this, aye L.T.?” Soap said, coming to stand in front of Ghost. He gave him a small punch to the chest.

“Quit it, Johnny.”

Soap chuckled. “I'll see ya on the chopper,” he said, then turned to König. “I'll save a seat for ya big guy.”

König stiffened, glancing towards the lieutenant. Ghost didn’t say anything, nor did he give him any hostile looks, which brought him some relief, but the lieutenant still didn't look all too pleased about him sitting next to Soap.

“Dankeschön,” He said after a moment, swallowing his nerves. As much as he didn't want to step on Ghost's toes, he was also Soap's friend, and he wasn't about to turn him down on the offer.

Soap smiled. “No problem, mate.”

“Hey König,” Gaz said, walking up to him. “Where are the others? Are we the first ones ere’?”

“Nein, they are on the chopper.”

“Already? Jeez, didn't realize this was a race.”

“Let’s skip the chit-chat, shall we Sergeant?” Ghost spoke up, voice gruff.

Gaz rolled his eyes and turned towards Ghost. “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, keep your pants on.”

He turned back to König and patted him on the shoulder. “Let's go get 'em, King.”

König nodded. “Ja.”

A grin spread across the Sergeant's face. “That's the spirit. See ya on the chopper.”

König was about to follow Gaz but stopped dead in his tracks when his gaze met the masked man across from him. Ghost was staring at him; nothing new there, but he didn't seem to be glaring; instead, his stare seemed curious. Like he wanted to ask what Gaz had meant by ‘king’ but also didn't want to swallow his pride and ask.

The Austrian was a bit surprised, to say the least, mostly because if he was right then that would mean Ghost hadn't been listening to his earlier conversation with Gaz, Roach, and Rodolfo, which seemed unlikely considering Ghost always wanted to know what he was doing (if the way he never let his gaze stray far from him when they were in the same vicinity as each other was anything to go on.)

“It's my call sign,” he said, praying to any universal being out there to for once answer his prayer and not let this be a huge mistake. “König means king in German.”

Ghost didn’t say anything for a good few seconds, instead silently staring, but just as König was starting to regret his decision, Ghost said, “Thought they'd call you giant.”

König blinked. Did Ghost really just make a joke, or was he being serious? Maybe it was both? Either way, the fact that he said anything was astonishing.

“I guess they did not want to be basic,” König said nonchalantly, like he wasn't internally panicking. He could literally hear his heart hammering in his chest.

Ghost grunted before stepping aboard the chopper, leaving König to stand there gaping after him like a fish out of water. It took a few seconds before König quickly remembered he had a mission to do and made his way onto the chopper himself.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They easily arrived at the storage unit where the meeting was suspected to take place, getting into position. The sun was already setting when they arrived, which meant it wouldn't be too long before Valeria and Luis showed up. At this point, it was just a waiting game.

Ghost was set to be perched on the roof opposite to the targeted structure, having the best angle to see what’s going on. The building Alejandro chose as his spot was old, and the gravel crunched under his boots, but it was certainly a good vantage point.

He set up his equipment with ease, hardly having to think about assembling the pieces of his sniper rifle. At this point, it was like muscle memory to him.

Minutes passed without much movement happening. There were storage containers flanked by plenty of men with a fair amount of weaponry, but no sign of Valeria or Luis.

Just as Ghost started to think it was too quiet, two separate vehicles arrived at the front of the building. An all-too-familiar woman with dark brown hair stepped out of one of them, and a dirty blonde man exited the other. Valeria and Luis.

“𝘝𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘯 𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘶𝘪𝘴,” Ghost’s voice rumbled through the comms. “𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰’ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘺𝘦𝘵.”

“𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘪𝘯,” Alejandro responded.

“𝘙𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢.”

Ghost watched closely as Valeria sauntered over to Luis and extended her hand, her signature smirk wide across her face. Luis accepted her greeting without hesitation and gestured to the building as he said something.

Valeria seemed to agree with what was being said before saying something herself and gesturing with an arm for Luis to lead the way into the building.

They both entered, and Ghost shifted, following their movements through the windows on the roof and side of the storage unit.

They both arrived where the containers being guarded by plenty of soldiers resided. They talked some more, with Valeria easily making a show of charming Luis. Ghost gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath. Now wasn't the time to let personal business interfere.

It wasn't long before Luis moved over to the crates and opened them, revealing the last piece they needed to move in.

“𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨. 𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯.”

The wind picked up just as he heard König’s slightly accented voice say through the comms, “𝘌𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.” Accompanied by Price's voice saying, “𝘌𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.”

Ghost silently watched as König picked the lock to the back entrance, his vision slightly obscured, and followed Price as he snuck in through the side door.

“𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨, 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰’𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬,” Ghost rumbled through the comms. Taking a steady breath through the material of his mask and inhaling the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, he took aim, squinted, and pulled the trigger, hitting them both in the neck with clean shots. They dropped quietly, soon followed by König’s footsteps as the large man picked his way through the semi-darkness.

“𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵, 𝘓.𝘛.” Soap's voice rang through.

"𝘐'𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘯𝘺," Ghost grumbled in response.

Soap's chuckle rang across the comms. "𝘋𝘰𝘯' 𝘨𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯' 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢' 𝘓.𝘛.; 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯' 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰' 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥."

"𝘍𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘯𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥," Ghost shot back.

"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘺, 𝘓.𝘛."

None of the guys stood much of a chance with Ghost picking them off one by one. He took down anyone who tried to get the jump on any of his team and made sure none escaped the storage unit.

He watched König the most throughout the entirety of the mission. For someone as tall as him, he should've been easy to spot, but he was good at moving just outside the periphery of the men he killed. Not only that, but he was fast and agile too, dropping into a tucked roll and slicing through the back of their knees with such force that it looked like he'd amputated their legs as he brought them crashing down to the ground, where he would finish them off. Or he’d sneak up on them and snap their necks with one smooth flick of his wrists.

Through his thermal scope, Ghost had the perfect first-row seat. It was a bit sick; the way he watched König move like the Austrian was some five-star movie playing in the theater, but after all the shit he's seen and done, it was safe to say he knew he was fucked up.

König, much like on every mission, didn’t show any hint of the nervous energy with which he always seemed to be fighting. If anything, he was too relaxed—shown with the way he languidly walked through the storage room twirling a knife in his hands as he kept an eye out for his next victim. It was like he belonged there amongst the chaos. It sent a chill coursing through Ghost's body, however it didn't deter the intrigue he always felt watching as the Austrian seemed to flip a switch inside his brain, locking away the awkward soldier in favor of the competent soldier who would do whatever he had to do to complete the mission.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen other soldiers do this before—letting their training take over, so to speak; hell, he's done it himself a few times, but with König, it was different. It was like you got a completely new soldier. Ghost could almost feel the ruthless fury in the way he fought.

“𝘛𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥,” Alejandro's voice echoed through the comms, signifying it was time for Ghost to get out of his head and focus back on the mission.

Ghost disassembled his rifle in exactly thirty-six seconds, like always, and stored it in the bag he’d brought it in.

With a quick glance around, he made sure there was no indicator of his presence before moving down the building and making solid contact with the ground.

“𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺. 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

Jogging the short distance between the buildings, Ghost entered through the front and met up with Soap, who was standing a few feet away from El Sin Nombre.

“We got her, L.T.,” he said, walking towards him. “Got them both.”

“Do you, though?” Valeria spoke up, her voice strong and unwavering. “Just because you managed to slap a few cuffs on me doesn't mean I won't be out enjoying the sun tomorrow.”

“You may have escaped last time, but you won't get so lucky this time,” Soap said, his eyes like daggers as he peered down at Valeria kneeling on the ground in cuffs.

Valeria chuckled. “Did you forget who owns Las Almas? I have everyone eating out of my hand. This city wouldn't survive without—”

“Cállate!”^[12] Alejandro barked, walking towards Valeria and leaning in close. “The last thing this city needs is you. And no matter where you run, no matter how many times you escape, I'll 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 be there to put you behind bars. That's a promise.”

Valeria raised her chin, meeting Alejandro's gaze head-on as a smirk that made you feel like you just made a deal with the devil spread wide across her face. “Ven a buscarme, vaquero,”^[11] She said before spitting on Alejandro.

“Damn it, get her out of here!” Alejandro ordered.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Despite the victory, no one was very keen on celebrating when they got back to Fuerzas Especiales; Valeria's words were hanging over everyone's heads like a death sentence.

König noticed Soap, in particular, was pretty tense about what she had said. He couldn’t help but remember the earlier conversation between the Scotsman and Roach, instantly feeling a pang of guilt.

He wanted to try and offer some form of comfort, but out of everyone, he was most likely the last person Soap would want to talk to about this. Not to mention, he wasn't good with social interactions on a regular basis, let alone with sensitive ones.

He considered maybe trying to get Gaz or Roach involved, but thought against it when he noticed how strung up they seemed as well.

With no other options König decided to do something he's never really done before: offer to hang out with someone. It was really the only thing he could think of to help Soap. He knew if he tried getting the Sergeant to talk about what he was feeling, it could blow up on him, and even if it didn't, he wouldn't have any idea what to say to help bring comfort after the Sergeant basically bore his soul to him. That left the option of offering a distraction to take Soap's mind off of the whole thing.

So with nothing but his nerves to guide him, König went on the search for Soap, which wasn't all that hard. He found him in five minutes at the gym.

“Soap,” König said, coming to stand next to the Sergeant, who was currently running on a treadmill. The equipment at Fuerzas Especiales wasn't as good as the 141's base, but it was certainly efficient enough to get a good workout.

Soap pressed a button, causing the treadmill to slow down, before stepping off and turning to the Austrian. “Hey König, what's up?” He asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He leaned down and picked up a water bottle, taking large gulps as he calmed his breathing. König couldn't help it as his attention got drawn to the sweat beading down the side of Soap's neck and the way his adams apple bobbed with every sip. König didn't exactly know why, but something seemed captivating in the way Soap did something so trivial as taking a sip of water.

"Uh, König?" Soap asked, snapping König's attention back to his eyes. Soap stood there with his head slightly tilted, a raised eyebrow accompanied by a small smirk on his face. His eyes were filled with amusement which only served to make König's body heat up in embarrassment. He was hesitant to speak, sure, but that wasn't a good excuse to try and use Soap as a distraction by staring at him. At least, thats what he thought he was doing. He couldn't come up with another reason as to why he'd stare at Soap like that, and he really didn't want to try to think anymore about it—he was morified enough as it was.

König cleared his throat. “Right, well, I, uh, heard from Gaz that you were hoping to go fishing soon. I was just wondering if you would be willing to go with me some time. I've never fished before.”

It wasn't a lie; Gaz had told him quite some time ago in a random topic change that Soap was hoping to go fishing soon and he's never fished a day in his life. He didn't exactly have a father who cared to do such mundane activities with his sons after all. Still, it felt a bit wrong to act like this was information he just learned about. But that feeling quickly vanished at the resulting smile his request brought on to Soap’s face.

“You're serious? You would be willin' to go fishin’ with me?”

“Uh, ja. Unless that is a prob—”

“No!” Soap shouted quickly, a blush forming on his cheeks as he cleared his throat. “I mean, yeah I'd be glad to go fishin’ with ya. You just took me off guard s'all. No one around base ever wants to go fishin’ with me. Ghost and Roach have zero interest, Price's too busy, and Gaz is just a nilly jessie when it comes to outdoor-sey things like fishing an’ hunting.”

𝘈 𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵? König silently questioned.

“But you'd really be interested?” Soap asked, eyes filled with hope.

“It seems like you are in need of a partner, so sure, I will go,” König said, fighting the embarrassed blush that wanted to form over his cheeks.

“Bloody lovely,” Soap said, smiling so big his cheeks had to hurt. “Finally go’ myself a fishing pal. Can’t get ou’ o’ it now. Dammit I gotta go rub this in Gaz's nose. He's been sayin’ fer years I'd never find a fishin’ partner.”

König barely had time to sidestep out of the way as Soap rushed past him in search of the Britt. He couldn't help, as an amused smile formed on his lips under the hood.

Maybe he would find a new interest, and if not, at least he'd get to watch Soap geek out over teaching him to fish.

Chapter Text

“𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨!”

Someone shouted his name, their voice a blood-curdling cry of desperation, but he couldn’t figure out who. His mind was spinning and reeling—all could feel was his body hitting the ground before arms grabbed him and dragged him somewhere.

He couldn’t focus on where.

He could distinctly see unfamiliar faces and familiar faces alike popping into his vision, but he couldn't focus on them. He vaguely noticed their mouths moving but couldn’t hear their voices over the ringing in his ears.

The sharp pain left as soon as it came, leaving just a dull throb in his ribcage. He felt...distant. Disjointed. Disconnected. Body numb, and mind not quite aware of it.

He knew, somewhere in his awareness, what had happened.

He knew.

He had all the evidence to put the pieces together, but every time he reached for that conclusion, it shied away, his body and mind recoiling from it.

𝘊𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

𝘊𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭.

𝘊𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.

There were more faces in his field of vision, but he couldn't focus on them enough to recognize them. They came and went— features mixing.

Lips formed words that his ears belatedly recognized as his name.

They all looked worried, and if he concentrated enough, he would even say they sounded panicked.

He knew he was probably feeling the same, but his awareness of those emotions was dulled and muted, buried under a fog of disbelief and shock—consciousness fragile and pulled back, sheltering itself in a bubble of denial and fear.

He stared at the lights, blinding and burning, as his focus narrowed down to the heavy thump of his heart, loud and hard against his rib cage.

"—penetration to the abdomen, possibly into the chest. Slightly hypotensive and tachycardic after one liter of NS." Someone's voice finally broke through the fog.

Who was that? They didn’t seem familiar. Were they talking about him? Where was he?

"Alright, let's get him to trauma one."

Another voice. What was going on?

"Hey, hey, can you hear me? How’re you feeling?"

They were talking to him, he realized, but he found it hard to focus on their voices over the ringing in his ears—a high-pitched static buzzing that filled up the room and crackled across his skin. He heard the words. Understood them, but he couldn’t fully absorb them. They sunk into his mind like pebbles dropped onto molasses, sinking slowly, unrushed, floating leisurely downward, and when they finally reached the bottom, it was a gentle landing with barely any pressure. Knowledge sitting there on the tip of understanding without truly sinking in.

He wanted to stay awake—he really did. But surely it wouldn't hurt to just close his eyes? It would only be for a moment. Then he'd open them…just one moment.

"Sir? Hey, can you hear me? Dammit, he's unresponsive!"

18 ᕼOᑌᖇՏ ᗴᗩᖇᒪIᗴᖇ……

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
Hey big guy. Are you still up to go fishing?
18:09

𝗸𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
Ja
18:11

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
Good. You have anything planned today?
18:11

𝗸𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
No, I have a free day

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
Great :)
Meet me at the rec room in 10. Don’t be late
18:11

𝗸𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴
Ok. See you soon :)
18:11

König dropped his phone to the mattress and sighed, rubbing his fingers over his palms, feeling the patchy scars and calluses left from healed wounds. He wasn’t sure if he had any smooth skin left from his forearms down by this point. Not that it mattered—nobody but himself ever saw the jagged tissue.

He absently traced a raised scar, leading from his thumb joint diagonally to his farthest knuckle on the top of his right hand. He hadn't planned on doing anything today, being granted a free day, but it seemed Soap had other plans, finally deciding to cash in his scheduled fishing trip with the Austrian.

Lately König noticed the Sergeant was a bit more, what was the word? Ah, yes, Clingy. If he had to say when he started noticing the change, he'd say it was around five days ago. If he was being honest it probably started earlier than that. Most likely after he took the first step in breaking down a wall he’s never let himself relinquish before by inviting Soap to go fishing.

Soap probably had been aware of this wall; said wall being that he never went out of his way to socialize with others. If someone, on a rare occasion (mostly when first meeting him), approached him to do some fun activity or chat he’d normally find an excuse, or if he wasn’t up for the facade he’d simply out right ignore them until they got the hint. It was something he's been doing since he was a child. Always keeping a certain amount of distance. Even with Horangi.

That was something that changed at the 141.

Instead of hiding away from every attempt at including him in their activities or just being around him, König found himself indulging in their efforts. The simple invites to have a meal from Gaz, the small conversations Roach would start up, and taking the time to view Soap’s sketch pad when the Scotsman would search for him to show him a new drawing.

Everytime he wanted to reflexively make an excuse or just pretend he’d never heard them call out to him he would hear Horangi’s little voice in his head reprimanding him. The korean was a nasty thorn in his side that, for better or worse, lead to him shortening the distance he put between himself and others. T.F. 141 wasn't like other PMC's he's been lent to, that was for sure. Most bases habitants annoyed him more often than not, which led to him giving even less of a shit about Horangi's little voice saying he needed to socialize, but here he found the soldiers pleasant to be around. As a result he allowed himself to make bonds with the members, no matter how small they may be.

It wasn’t like it was a terrible thing, a scary realization? Sure. Terrible? No. The 141 was surprisingly pleasant to be around after all. None of them ever tried to push him when he wanted to be alone or when he just gave small nods and sounds of acknowledgment, always settling for what he gave in response to their efforts.

And that was the main point. He never searched for Gaz to invite him to lunch, or started conversations with Roach, and he definitely never asked Soap to see his drawings. Not without the Scottsman asking him if he wanted to see them first. He kept the wall up, only letting them come to him.

That was, until now.

Soap was the first person he made an advancement on. The first he let slip through the slim crack in the wall that kept people at a distance, and it was obvious the Sergeant had taken that step, no matter how small it was to any observer, to heart.

It first started as Soap inviting him to join him on activities more often like playing a board game, going to the gym, or just having a meal together in the cafeteria.

Then König noticed the touching.

Which, ok, Soap touched people—a lot. That was a known fact for anyone who knew him. It was a subconscious impulse, whether he meant to do it or not. A light tap on the elbow when he passed someone he was chummy with in the halls. Gentle squeezes on shoulders before parting from a conversation. But there was one König noticed Soap recently started doing with him. It wasn’t anything too drastic and didn't bother him per se, but it was noticeable.

Soap leaned on him. In any form, really. Shoulder to arm, back to back, hip to upper thigh. Once, when he was reading on one of the couches where everyone liked to gather to watch movies, Soap waltzed in and sat directly next to him, slightly leaning his weight on him as he scrolled through channels and asked what book he was reading, even though there was plenty of space for him to sit somewhere else.

He had no idea what to do, his focus quickly shifting from his book to not tensing at the physical contact with the Sergeant. It wasn’t that Soap being close appalled him, it was just he wasn’t used to all the touching—he could literally feel the heat radiating from the Sergeant. It was so distracting he’d almost missed the fact Soap had asked a question.

He wasn’t sure what the sudden touchiness was about, but he never brought it up. Soap, as established, was a touchy person after all. It was just that…he never noticed Soap leaning on anyone else on base. At least not the way he did with him. He assumed it had to do with his size, but that didn’t quite sit right.

It was strange but it suspiciously felt like the Sergeant was flirting with him, which was absurd. Soap was with Ghost after all. Besides, it was stupid to think someone could actually be interested in 𝘩𝘪𝘮. It was obviously something else. What? He wasn’t sure. Was he ever going to ask? Hell no.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“There ya are. I was starin’ to wonder if you were comin’. Ready to go, big guy?” Soap asked, coming to stand in front of the Austrian with a smile plastered across his face.

König nodded before pausing to stare at the Sergeant in front of him. Soap was wearing a white long-sleeve shirt with a light grayish-tan vest that was similar to the bulletproof vests they normally wore when on mission. He had a heavy-duty backpack stuffed to the brim slung on one shoulder and two fishing rods held in one hand with a box in the other.

“Since ya said you’ve never been fishin’ before I figured ya wouldn’t have a rod,” Soap said, snapping König out of his one-sided staring contest with the fishing rods. He felt his face flush as he looked up to meet Soap’s gaze.

“That’s very kind of you but you didn’t have to go out of your way—”

“Aw haud yer wheesht,” Soap interrupted with a scoff. “It was no trouble at all, but if it’s really a big deal to ya then consider the fact you’re willing to go fishin’ with me as payment.”

"Dankeschön,” König mumbled, then gestured to the equipment in the Scotts hands. “Do you need any help?”

“Nah, I got this,” Soap brushed off. “Now c’mon. The base is pretty close to the coast so I’ve been able to find the perfect spot to catch the big ones. I’ll show it to ya.”

“‘Big ones’?” König questioned, slightly tilting his head like a confused puppy.

Soap chuckled. “The big fish,” he clarified. “Now, let's get going, aye?”

König nodded and followed behind the Scotsman. The way there was relatively short, most of the time was spent with Soap talking about things rather unintelligible in König’s opinion. Although one particular topic did stand out to him, it was just a random ambush tactic that Soap had thought of one night in his sleep that definitely wouldn’t ever be used, but it was certainly interesting enough to get him asking a few questions to spurr Soap into talking more.

It was nice seeing the way Soap’s eyes crinkled at the edges and seemed to brighten. The way his dimple lines became prominent and his hand gestures fastened in pace the more excited he got. It made something warm settle in König’s chest, seeing how someone could find so much joy in the most trivial things.

Once they arrived, Soap wasted no time leading König down a narrow dirt path that led to nearly crystal-clear water surrounded by tall, lush trees and shrubs, providing a perfect natural canopy.

“Alright, fishing’s not all tha difficult. The first thing you’ve got to do is choose a spot to cast yer line. Just pick a spot tha feels right to ya.”

König followed Soap’s instructions, looking over the lake carefully, his gaze lingering on a small patch of open water further out. He pointed his finger. “What about there?” he asked.

Soap looked towards the direction he pointed at and smiled, bringing a hand up and clapping him on the back of his shoulder. “Tha looks like a great spot. Now, ya just 'ave t' tie yer bait to the hook, but don’ make it too tight.”

König took a deep breath, feeling the warmth from Soap’s hand that still rested on his shoulder, the stillness of the lake around him, and exhaled, letting the building feeling of electricity rippling under his skin dissipate. He was fine. It was just a simple gesture of praise. It shouldn’t affect him this much.

He wouldn’t lie and say Soap’s, or really anyone's touch that didn’t mean him immediate harm, didn't always bring on some type of feeling he could never place. He wasn’t sure why that was, maybe if he dug into it like a shrink, he would say that it came from his lack of a comforting touch when he was younger. His mother was always too busy, and his father was not the type of man who gave comforting physical contact. It was quite the opposite.

But what he did know was that the absence of that touch always left an empty feeling in his chest, like a gaping hole was gouged into the middle, and he was left standing there with nothing—another reason why he always tried to minimize physical contact with the people around him. It was always quick to disappear after, which was comforting. However, with Soap, it was different. The feeling seemed to intensify and lingered when the Sergeant moved away, only to suddenly disappear without warning and leave him craving for the feeling back—for anything that made him feel remotely the same way.

It was stupid. He knew that. A simple touch shouldn’t have such profound effects on him, but he was a weak person, it seemed. Not physically, no, he was quite the powerhouse; that much was obvious, but on any other level, he seemed to crumble with little to no effort from the most simple things another man would stand strong against.

König sighed. This wasn’t the time to be going down into an endless spiral. It was rude to spend this whole time caught up in his own mind when Soap clearly had been looking forward to going fishing and was wasting his time teaching him the basics.

He thought back to Soap’s earlier instructions, silently hoping he hadn’t been standing for a long period of time staring at nothing from an outsider's perspective, and secured the bait to the hook. He then cast the line, watching the feathered shape of the hook and bait fly through the air, skimming the surface of the lake before plunging beneath it.

Soap remained quiet as he watched König’s line drift in the water, alterations in wind and waves swaying the bait ever so slightly before a grin spread across his face.

“Nice job,” he said, and gave König a light squeeze with his hand on the Austrian’s shoulder. “Now we just gotta wait,” he continued before following the same steps he’d instructed König to follow. He sat down and smiled, patting the spot next to him. “C’mon big guy, it might take awhile. Don’ wanna be stuck standing the whole time do ya?”

“Nein,” König said and walked over, sitting down and enjoying the feeling of the wind blowing against the skin uncovered by his T-shirt.

A few minutes passed with nothing but the sounds of the water swaying and leaves rustling in the air before he felt a slight weight against his side, gentle, almost unnoticeable at first, before deepening into the unmistakable weight of a person.

He felt his body stiffen for a moment out of habit before relaxing and adjusting to the new weight—having gotten used to Soap doing this by now.

"Y'know, I have fond memories of fishing. Just me and my dad on warm summer days out on the lake,” Soap said. “I remember one time he tried to get my sisters to join us, but the moment they saw the worms, they started squealin’ and tossed the whole bucket in the lake. I couldn’t stop laughing. It’s safe to say he never tried takin’ them to the lake for anything’ but swimming again.”

König softly chuckled as he imagined Soap as a kid laughing at his sisters with the same laugh that seemed to affect everyone in its radius; whether it made them join in or simply smile, it was always brightening the mood.

Soap stared at König, a grin widening on his face. It was rare to see the Austrian so relaxed, and even rarer to hear him let out any form of laughter. It was like a small victory every time he got to hear it, and it brought a small feeling of pride whenever he was the one to cause it. He wanted to keep hearing that small, almost nonexistent laugh.

“Ya know, there was this other time when—”

Time seemed to pass by quickly after that, with Soap telling stories about when he was younger, like the time he fell off his bike trying to mimic something he saw on TV by riding up a skating ramp and doing a flip, or how he fell in love with the idea of joining the military and tried to lie about his age to join and got caught every time.

Every story König could always imagine perfectly, each showing just how much Soap hasn’t lost his energetic spark over the years despite the grueling things he's probably seen and done.

It was comforting to know that Soap could still manage to smile and joke like he did when he was little and not be weighed down by the job. Not that König thought Soap was never affected; it would be a miracle to go into their line of work and be completely fine. He’s sure Soap has had his fair share of nightmares and bad days, but unlike himself, Soap seemed capable of holding on to the good in the world, at least enough to still be kind and caring. To be able to laugh and joke around. He wasn’t like him.

Soap wasn’t a coward who ran from his past or who he is in the present. He didn’t join the military because he wanted to selfishly abandon his brother and mother and leave them to fend for themselves. He wasn’t some monster who hurt everyone, whether he cared for them or not, who got pleasure from inflicting pain on others, from taking lives, and from being shot at. He was good. He was everything König didn’t deserve to associate himself with.

“It’s gettin’ late. We should probably head back,” Soap said, snapping König back to the real world and out of his head.

“Oh, ja, ok…” he agreed.

Soap’s eyebrows pinched together, a frown settling across his face. “Everything alright?” he asked.

König tensed, glancing to the side. “Ja, everything's fine. I…” Should he be honest? Would Soap even care? It was just him getting in his own head again, nothing new about that. There was no reason for the Sergeant to care. "I'm just disappointed we didn't catch anything,” he finally settled on saying after a moment's pause. It was a lie. He was lying, and he felt guilty for it. It was strange; anytime he lied to Soap, it felt like he was committing some kind of crime, a nasty feeling of guilt and self-hatred rising within him.

Soap stared at him for a moment, eyes boring into him, before he gave a small smile. “Aye, it can be disappointing, but there's alway next time,” he said, voice lighter than before.

König hated the fact that Soap could see through him so easily and that he felt the need to treat him like some delicate flower. He didn’t need or want Soap’s pity. Still, he couldn’t deny he was grateful Soap didn’t try to pry further. It was his own fault for letting himself get so caught up in his own mind anyway.

“Ja, next time.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The walk was quiet, the halls barren despite it being well before anyone should be in bed, the only noise being his echoing footsteps. It did nothing to help his nerves.

He and Soap arrived back at base only a few minutes ago, but almost exactly as they walked in, Roach came up, saying Price wanted to talk to him.

He wasn’t sure what it was about. He couldn’t recall doing anything wrong, but for all he knew, he was being sent crawling back to KorTac.

𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘵, please don’t let it be that. There was no way he could face going back there, knowing he had done 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 to screw up and be sent back early. Then again, maybe KorTac just needed him for another job? Hopefully, that was the case. But what if it wasn’t? What the hell could he have possibly done to earn being sent packing? It was bound to happen eventually, but it’s barely been three months. Surley, he couldn’t have fucked up already?

With a sharp exhale, König tapped his knuckles against Price’s door and took a step back. Probably too soft, with the hope that maybe he could claim plausible deniability that he 𝘩𝘢𝘥 stopped by, only to find Price wasn’t present.

“Come in.”

No such luck. Taking a deep breath, König ducked under the doorframe and forced himself to make eye contact with the captain.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, I was wondering if you’d ever show, lad.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

Clumsy as a newborn giraffe, König bumped against the chair as he pulled it away from Price’s desk. Flustered, his face red beneath his hood, König shoved himself into the seat before he could make a larger fool of himself. It felt just like the first day he arrived—unnecessarily clumsy and making a fool of himself. König clasped his hands in his lap, picking at his nails, a nasty old habit.

Usually, this was where he’d be told to “calm down" and that “everything was okay; you're not in any trouble," but Price fixed him with a concerned scrutiny that made König want to wither to the floor. Ramrod straight, breathing almost non-existent, nails digging into skin so deep it might start to draw blood, König was about ready to burst at the seams.

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙚, he scolded himself.

The pin needle feeling of skin tearing began to pierce through his hand as König's fingers began to rip off the skin around his nails. Dammit, he needed a distraction...Anything to help break some of the tension. Unable to hold the captain’s gaze, König looked down at the table.

𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

Price silently watched him for a moment, no doubt assimilating every slight shift in his body. Price hasn’t known him long enough to know his nervous habits or calming techniques, but he seemed unbothered, albeit curious.

Finally, after what felt like centuries, Price rubbed his face, sighing as he said, “I’m sure you’re wonderin’ why you’re ere’. There—”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“I—what are you apologizin’ for, lad?”

König shifted. 𝘊𝘳𝘢𝘱. He shouldn’t have interrupted. Stupid. Why can’t he ever learn to keep his mouth shut? He was never good at staying silent when he felt like he was in trouble. He could stay quiet whenever it didn’t matter, but not when it did. He was pathetic.

“I’m not sure, sir. I assume you called me here to send me back to KorTac. I just wanted to apologize for whatever I did to initiate this course of action. I can only hope it won’t affect any chance of our units working together in the future.”

Price stared at him for a split second before sighing. "Christ, mate, I’m not sending you back; you've done nothing wrong.”

König sighed, feeling some of the tension leave him. That was good. He didn’t fuck up his mission. And Price didn’t scold or seem offended by his interruption.

“Look, there's no easy way to say this, lad, so I’m just going to cut straight to the point. I called you ere’ for your brother…”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Let’s get straight to business, shall we?” Price said, pulling out two manila folders from his organizers and handing one to Ghost and Soap. It was light and didn't appear to have anything inside except a few documents. König peered over Soap’s shoulder as the Scott opened it and began reading through, taking in as much information as he could. It was nothing more than a basic mission overview of the target.

“Edward Hart Finnegan, an ex member of the Commission of the EU. Intel tells us tha he has a house in Belgrade tha was broken into by a group of private miscreant soldiers belonging to a small, underground faction. Your job is to retrieve the stolen documents taken from him. Reliable reports tells us that they’ve taken these documents somewhere near this building 𝘦𝘳𝘦’,” Price said, setting down a map and pointing to a building located in a residential location, “a small townhouse in Winterthur, Switzerland."

“Always wanted to go there,” König heard Soap mumble.

”Question, Captain,” Gaz said, raising his hand slightly. “Wha' exactly are these documents?”

“Classified,” Price said. “Something tha shouldn’t be publicized, but might be unless we retrieve em’. Could put hundreds of soldiers at risk.”

“Its alway ‘classified’, innit?” Gaz grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

Roach chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. “I don’ know why you bother askin’.”

“Enough wallowing,” Price interrupted. “You five are taking point. König,” Price turned to the Austrian. “If you want you can sit this mission out. I won't force you to go,” the older man said, his voice slightly softer than before.

It was a close thing, but König managed to swallow down the defensive outburst he wanted to unleash. As a lieutenant, he couldn’t let emotions dictate his movements and cloud his judgment. He’s risking not just his own life but that of his team and those of the ones he’s promised to protect. But that didn’t change the fact that he strangely felt hurt by the captain thinking he couldn’t handle something as simple as putting his emotions aside. Then again, he guessed he couldn’t blame the older man, seeing how his file probably throws in the word “reckless” more than he would like to admit.

“I’m fine, sir,” König mumbled, keeping his eyes facing down, making it a point not to fidget. He could feel everyone's eyes boring into him, most filled with confusion, besides a certain skull-faced man whose gaze seemed accusatory.

Price quietly nodded his head. “Alright then, you’ll take point on gettin’ us in.”

Price turned his gaze away from solely focusing on König, crossing his arms over his chest, eyeing all the men around the table. "Get in, search, an' get out. Retrieve and report back. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 is your mission.”

“Yes, sir,” they all said in nearly perfect unison.

“Good,” Price nodded. “Your flight takes off in twenty, don’t be late. You’re dismissed. König, stay behind for a moment.”

Roach, Gaz, and Soap stood, leaving with nods, the scott giving König a quick squeeze on the arm as he passed with a “see you later.”

König managed a small nod. He was mostly focused on the way Ghost was standing across from him, seemingly ready to disobey Price’s dismissal, but thankfully once Roach, the last of the bunch, walked out, he followed, his gaze never leaving König until the door was shut.

Silence.

That was all that remained. It was almost as if a single pin needle dropped on the ground; it would be the loudest sound that König has ever heard. It was nerve-racking to say the least, having the captain's eyes bored into him. Still, he couldn’t run from this. Whatever Price had to say, he just needed to take it in stride. Though that was easier said than done.

“Listen, König. I don’t want you to take my earlier words negatively. Its not tha I don’t trust your abilities, lad. You’ve proven well on every mission I’ve sent ya on. Its just with your brother—”

“Its fine, sir,” König said, purposefully cutting Price off, his hand clenching next to his thigh. He didn’t need to revisit this. He’d been trying to keep the conversation from yesterday out of his head. It wasn’t important. It wasn’t…it wasn’t his fault. “I understand your concern. But I am fine.”

Price's gaze softened, his eyes filled with pity. König wanted to look away, wanted to 𝘳𝘶𝘯 from that pitiful gaze, but he stood his ground. “I hear ya,” the older man said, his voice portraying understanding. König hated it. “Still, I need to ask one more time. Can you handle being sent out?”

“...Yes, sir.”

“Alright then lad, you’re dismissed.”

König nodded and turned around, exiting the room. He didn’t make it far, the moment the door shut a hand twisted into his shirt, yanking him up and pinning him to the wall as a voice growled in his ear, “What the hell was that about?”

Ghost.

Of course it was. König should have expected the man to not leave this alone. Since the beginning, Ghost has been weary of him and has clearly only been leaving him alone out of respect for his team. Now it seemed he didn’t care about any of that. Still, he hadn’t been expecting Ghost to quite literally pin him to a wall.

“Its none of your business, 𝘎𝘦𝘪𝘴𝘵,” He said, purposefully using the German word for Ghost’s name. He was sure it would bother the lieutenant and that was the point. He wasn’t in the mood for any of Ghost’s bullshit and he was more than willing to potray that to the fellow masked man.

“Like hell it isn’t,” Ghost spat, voice low and full of gravel, grating through his teeth in a deadly defiance. “This is 𝘮𝘺 team, and if you’re going to be a liability then it’s my responsibility to deal with you. I won't have one of my men leaving this mission in a body bag.”

“I’ll make sure everyone gets out alive, you don’t have to worry. I am fine.”

“If you were fine then Price wouldn’t have called you out back there.” Ghost pressed more of his body weight against the Austrian, eyes cold and unblinking as he stared daggers at König. “So I’ll ask again. What was that about?”

König wasn’t sure what came over him, but the next thing he knew, he was flipping Ghost over, locking the lieutenant against the wall, and pressing every ounce of his body weight against the man. “I already told you its none of 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 business,” he spat, his voice low and scarily devoid of any emotion, surprising himself.

He was expecting Ghost to instantly snap back at him or punch him, but instead he suddenly went silent, all talk sapped from him like a switch had been flipped. It seemed Ghost was just as taken back as he was. Then, with a grunt, Ghost shoved him back and took a step away from him, his eyes narrowed into tiny slits of murderous intent, the moment of shock completely wiped away.

They stared at each other, neither making a single move—the air around them was so tense that not even the world’s sharpest knife could cut through it.

A standoff.

König was coiled so tight he thought he’d snap, unsure if Ghost would come at him again. He looked like every child's nightmare, unhinged and wild, with hatred radiating off him. Nothing like the composed Ghost he’s come to know. Now a creature of horror in human form.

“Who woulda thought…” His voice cut König to the core. Gritty. Low. Hate dripping from bared fangs. “You actually have a backbone outside the field…” he rumbled, nearly spitting his words in König’s face.

König almost flinched at the words, but his body was too wound up, ready to fight as if he 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 in the middle of the field. He could feel the familiar feeling of adrenaline coursing through his veins, the excitement beginning to creep in at the anticipation of a 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 fight.

He took an unsteady breath and, despite himself, hesitated when Ghost descended on him like an angel of death. Unable to react fast enough, Ghost’s fingers sank into his side, bearing down right over a patch of mangled scar tissue right below his ribs. Somehow knowing exactly where the tender area was located.

König gasped and tried to wrench himself from Ghost’s grasp, but he held on tighter, his fingers biting deep. König lashed out in retaliation and grabbed Ghost’s arm, but was wrestled back. Another bruising hand slapped onto König’s hip. He was slammed back to the wall and overwhelmed by the heavy press of Ghost’s body, intent to pin him there. Maybe make him one with the drywall, if he so desired. König started to struggle, wondering for a moment if Ghost was going to finally hit him, but that thought died when he noticed the lieutenant was looking him up and down, curiosity mixed with this sudden outburst.

Hidden, just like Ghost, the lieutenant could only stare at the patch of pale skin through the gap in König’s sniper hood. And stare he did, trying to break König down with his eyes alone. Much longer, and König was sure he’d ignite into flames.

“Wish I knew what he sees in you. All you do is roll over like a li’le whelp every time I look at you.”

'𝘏𝘦?' König silently questioned. What was the lieutenant talking about?

Ghost leaned in, positioning his face right next to König’s ear, having to slightly stand on the balls of his feet to reach. He chose to ignore the simmering anger he felt at the fact that he even had to do that. “Where does all tha fire go from the field, eh? Hard to believe you’re the same person.”

“What is going on ere’?” A familiar British voice, low and filled with authority, cut in before König could even think of a response, echoing down the halls. Both soldiers turned to see Price standing outside a newly opened door, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Ghost let out a low grumble. “Nothin’…” he muttered, his grip tightening for a split second before he took a step back, releasing König’s side. His fingers twitched like they were ready to go for another grab, and König was fully prepared to fight Ghost if he made a move this time around, but thankfully he restrained himself with a clenched fist. “Just talkin’.”

Price stared at the two of them, looking each over like he was looking for proof the two of them had broken out into a collage of fists. They probably would have if not for the man interrupting, but König wasn’t going to mention that.

“Right…” Price said, voice purposefully slow to show he didn’t believe that blatant lie. “I suggest you two finish your discussion and get ready to fly out. I don’ want you being late,” he continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I assume there won’t be any trouble on the mission between the two of you?”

“Yes, sir,” They both said, each giving the other one last glance before splitting ways.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ghost sat with his back straight and jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on König across the aisle, his eyes so cold that the Austrian was beginning to question if he was in Antarctica.

The aircraft's engines hummed throughout the plane's cabin, the only noise in the otherwise silent space. It was as if the entire atmosphere had been sucked out of the cabin, leaving behind an awkward vacuum that neither Soap, Roach, nor Gaz knew how to fix.

König kept his eye glued to the floor in front of him and tried his best to stay as still as possible, not wanting to give Ghost any more reason to be annoyed by him.

He could feel the intensity of the other man's stare; it was almost like a physical weight pushing down on him. He hadn’t expected the flight there to be easy; there was always a sense of unease when they were together. It was like they were two opposing forces, constantly butting heads since the moment he met the lieutenant. But that didn't help make the situation any less unbearable.

It was obvious the others could sense the tension between them was different. It was thicker, almost suffocating. And no one could ignore it. A reason as to why the cabin was so quiet instead of being filled with the usual banter the trio of sergeants' naturally brought with them.

Ghost had a hard expression on his face, a deep frown you could practically see through the skull mask. König could feel the murderous intent rolling off of him in palpable waves, and he couldn't help but feel aggravated by it.

It wasn't any of Ghost’s business what he discussed with Price, and he certainly wasn't a liability to the team. Sure, he wasn't the perfect clog in the machine that smoothly ran like all the others did, but he still 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘥. He could function with the others just fine. He's been doing this long enough to know how to handle the job. His brother wasn't going to change that. It didn't 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 what Price said. It was irrelevant; it wasn’t his goddamn fault. He was 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦.

As the air transport soared through the clouds, the uncomfortable silence between the two men grew louder. Gaz shifted in his seat, acutely aware that Ghost's eyes had never left König since they boarded the plane. He cleared his throat, trying to break the silence, but Ghost remained stoic, his eyes burning into the Austrian.

Finally, Gaz couldn't take it anymore. “Wha's got your panties in a twist, Ghost? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady and joking. He knew he was playing with fire and was probably going to get burned, but he had to try 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

“Mind your own business." Ghost growled, his voice low and filled with venom.

König couldn't help but let out a soft scoff. Of course, Ghost would say that, yet when being told the same thing, completely undermine the order.

“Look, I'm not tryin’ to start anything; it's just that you've been looking at König like ya want to put him six feet under. Did something happen between—”

“Drop it, Sergeant. Nothings wrong. Isn't that right, 𝘒ő𝘯𝘪𝘨?”

König looked up at Ghost, holding his unwavering stare for a moment, before glancing back down, feeling his jaw clench. “Ja…everything's fine,” he muttered.

“Right…” Gaz said slowly, eyeing the two lieutenant's carefully. Ghost's eyes left König for a moment, glaring daggers at Gaz before returning to his assigned victim. Gaz gulped.

König could feel the tension rise up a notch in the cabin after that and closed his eyes, silently praying for this day to be over already.

The rest of the flight was filled with an uneasy silence, with nothing but anger and tension filling the atmosphere.

As they landed at their destination, Ghost stood up and grabbed his gear, not sparing a glance at König as he walked off the air transport.

König took a deep breath and followed suit, knowing that they had a job to do and would have to put their personal issues aside for the time being.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was meant to be an entirely routine mission—in and out, clearing the hostiles, retrieving the documents. Easy. Clean.

Himself, Soap, and König were downstairs as Gaz and Roach cleared the top. There was no way he was letting the Austrian out of his sight. Especially not with Johnny.

Ghost would admit that everyone was on edge, and he knew it wasn't because of the mission but because of him. Despite this knowledge, it didn't change the fact that he was 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. König was a liability.

Since the moment the Austrian stepped foot into the townhouse, he was like an uncontrollable bull, lashing out at anything that came in his path. Within the first few minutes, he'd already taken down three men, each more unnecessarily brutal than the last.

It was effective; he couldn't deny that, but it was also 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. Which, yeah sure, he's read König’s file; he knew this wasn’t uncommon; hell, he's even seen some of that recklessness firsthand. Since their first mission, he's witnessed the Austrian’s fighting style and how reckless it was at times, watching as König rushed in like he was some god who couldn’t be hurt. But this recklessness was different. It was uncontrolled, irrational, and fueled with anger. Whatever it was that Price had been worried about was clearly a reasonable concern.

And Ghost was pissed that Price had let König come, pissed at himself for not barging straight up to Price and telling him he could stuff it where the sun doesn't shine and demand König be taken off the mission, pissed König had lied and said he was fine. But Ghost knew he couldn’t fully blame the Austrian as much as he wanted to. He should've pushed harder, and that was on him.

As much as he hated to admit it, he knew that if he'd been dealing with personal crap that would cause him to be as reckless as König was being, he probably would have lied and said he was fine too. Just to try and prove to not only everyone else but to himself that he 𝘸𝘢𝘴 fine, but the truth would always be that he wasn’t fine. And the resulting factor would always be the same: him putting his team and innocent lives in danger and having things be fine until they weren’t.

Just like right now.

The room erupted into chaos in the blink of an eye—a millisecond that felt like an eternity. Bullets flew everywhere, shouts were heard, and Ghost saw König through his peripheral vision, without hesitation, propel his massive body towards him, hurtling through the air with surprising speed.

The impact was jarring as König's colossal frame collided with his, sending him hurtling towards the unforgiving ground, cursing at the impact. In the frenzy that followed, a hail of bullets tore through the air, creating a nightmarish storm of metal. The rounds sprayed haphazardly, tearing apart everything in their path, turning the once orderly room into a chaotic battlefield.

"Shite!" Soap's disapproval cut above the sounds of the rapid fire of bullets as he swiftly retaliated, his instincts taking over. With focus, he identified the targets hiding across the room, systematically neutralizing the immediate threat and subsequently freeing the surrounding area from hostile forces.

Still caught off guard from being bodychecked by a fucking man built like a mammoth, Ghost struggled to comprehend the string of events for a second.

𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, he thought as his body scrambled to regain its footing. By the time he got up and turned to ask what the fuck König’s reasoning was for doing that, he was too late to do anything. He watched as König stumbled, his sturdy form seemingly betrayed by the force of gravity. The Austrian’s brow furrowed, his perplexed eyes showing a hint of confusion beneath the concealing hood. A low grunt escaped his lips, laced with pain and frustration.

"𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦,” he muttered, coughing up a few more droplets of blood.

Ghost stared at König for a second, his eyes widening. The world seemed to freeze over as his gaze shifted to the Austrian’s faltering legs. It became evident that something was wrong, but he couldn’t tell what. His eyes darted over König's form, taking in every miniscule detail he could.

Blood.

There was blood leaking down König’s leg, and dripping from somewhere behind his vest but how—

Ghost felt his blood run cold and jaw clench, the unmistakable feeling of anger dancing across his skin.

It took a moment, but he could put together what most likely happened. Bullets had ricocheted off König's vest, bullets that were meant for 𝘩𝘪𝘮, delivering a forceful blow that expelled the air from the Austrian’s lungs and most likely shattered some ribs. But the true injuries lay beneath the protective armor, where the bullets had penetrated König’s flesh, striking his femur and stomach, and God knows where else.

𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬.

The giant was resilient; he had been since the first time Ghost ever saw him in action, breaking down doors like it was nothing, which made it easy to forget that the Austrian was ultimately as vulnerable as any other human. Vulnerable and toppling over, heading straight for the ground.

Before Ghost even knew what he was doing he was shouting, “𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨!”

Chapter Text

“Earlier today, I noticed quite a bit of money missing from my wallet.” The clink of glass filled the near-silent room as a middle-aged man set down a bottle of beer on the table. “Would either of you happen to know anything about that?” He asked. He had thinning brown hair, bushy eyebrows, and a scruffy beard. His voice, though calm and collected, cut König to the core. Grainy. Low. Silent anger dripped from each word spoken, clearly directed at the young Austrian rather than the other inhabitants at the table.

“I don’t know,” König mumbled.

“What was that boy? Speak up.”

König bit the inside of his cheek, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what happened to your money,” he said slightly louder with the calmest tone he could muster up, silently grateful that his voice didn’t waver.

“You ‘don’t know’?" the man repeated slowly, each word leaving his tongue leisurely and with more skepticism than the last. König couldn’t help it as his shoulders hunched up under the scrutiny of the brunette's gaze. “Somehow, I highly doubt that." The man continued, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a lighter along with a pack of cigarettes, grabbing one and lighting it before putting the pack and lighter away.

“Honey, I’m sure if Anton says he doesn’t know who took your money, then he doesn't know,” König’s mother spoke up, her voice calm and soothing as she brought a hand to rest on the man’s shoulder.

The man blew out a puff of smoke. “Well, it didn’t just grow legs and walk off now, did it?” he snapped back, shrugging off her hand. She flinched, slightly curling in on herself to prepare for the thunderous crack that was sure to resonate throughout her whole body as his fist made contact with her cheek, but instead of the expected blow, she watched as he turned back to her eldest son.

“So I ask again, who took the money? I suggest you confess here and now, like a man,” he growled.

“It wasn’t 𝘮𝘦,” König said earnestly, glaring at his mother's sad excuse of a boyfriend. He may not be his actual father, but he was a pretty damn close second. Always talking about being a “man” and yelling. The only real difference was that, unlike his father, who was more cold and made it a point to never show affection, acting like it was some disease, this man was like a volcano, exploding any chance he got over the littlest things. The money that was “missing” was probably no more than a few dollar bills he spent on his stupid cigarettes and forgot about. Maybe if König was lucky, the bastard would get lung cancer and die. Of course, that was wishful thinking; he would never be so fortunate.

The man sighed and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I suppose if you don’t know, then you don’t know.” He turned to the small seven-year-old sitting beside König, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “But perhaps your brother knows.”

König felt his blood turn to ice, his body going rigid as he glanced over to his brother. Matthias sat there with his lip pinched between his teeth, his eyes downcast and glossy, hidden behind his brown bangs. He didn’t dare look up at the man, or anyone for that matter. The first word that came to mind as König looked at him was that he seemed guilty.

𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦.

“I—I don’t know anything, I swear,” the small boy said, voice hitching.

The man banged his fist onto the table, all self-restraint flying out the window, causing the tableware to shake and the people around him to flinch. “C’mon now, you both can’t be clueless! Think of all the hard work your mother has put into grooming you to be proper young men of society. Do you really want to put her through the heartache of thinking she is a complete and utter failure?” He snapped.

“N-nein,” Matthias stuttered.

“Then what would a man do?”

“He would tell the truth,” König answered, clenching his fist on top of his thigh.

“And the truth is?”

König glanced one more time at his baby brother who was beginning to shake like a leaf. He felt his heart squeeze at the sight. The boy was only seven years old and already flinched whenever someone went to touch him. It wasn’t fair. Matthias had a hard enough time to begin with, him being sick almost every day of the week, leaving him with hardly any friends. He didn’t need to feel like he was walking on eggshells in his own damn house. The place where you're supposed to feel safe. Where you should feel protected.

“I took it,” König whispered.

“What was that?”

König turned back to his mother’s boyfriend. “𝘐 took it,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

“I didn't raise you to be a thief.”

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 didn’t raise me at all! You're just my mother's boyfriend who walks around acting like he’s the one paying the bill—” Before he could even react, a hand was clamping down on his arm in a painful hold, yanking it above the table.

“I suggest you watch your tone with me, 𝘣𝘰𝘺!” the man spit, voice like venom. “Perhaps you need a lesson in not only lying but in manners too.” He brought up his cigarette, pointing the burning tip above König’s forearm. “This is to make sure you remember it.”

“Wait, no, bitte, 𝘼𝙖𝙝—”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“König, stop fighting me! You need to calm the hell down before you—fuck, how are you still this strong even when drugged up—before you rip your bloody stitches out!” Gaz tried shouting above the scream of agony ripping its way from the Austrian’s throat. His effort was in vain; König’s scream drowned out his plea effortlessly. Not that it would have made a difference if König had heard it. The only thing he could concentrate on was the feeling of panic coursing through his veins.

He was vaguely aware of a tightness along his abdomen at a sharp angle, pulling and tugging on his skin before a slight wet warmth accompanied by small crackles like fireworks of pain loosened it and sent him spiraling into a further state of panic and desperation.

König thrashed and strained against the hands that tried to stop him and keep him from running away—from getting to safety—jumbled, unintelligible words erupting from him in a mix of German and English. Pleas to be let go. Apologies to everyone and everything. Curses, cries of panic. Utter terror crescendoing into pitiful whimpers of despair.

He could hear a mechanic beeping—which he managed to piece together was probably a heart monitor—quickening as his movements became more ragged and his breaths hitched on sobs, but it didn’t deter his efforts; if anything, it only fueled them. His hands finally got a grasp on the ones that gripped at his shoulders, attempting to pry them off.

“Dammit König, don’t—”

“Move out of the way.”

“What? Are you fuckin’ crazy!? If I do tha, then he’s just gonna—”

“I said 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦!”

“Oh for fuck— fine!”

Hands released him, but before he could try to make a bolt for it, a heavy body hunched over him, replacing the previous hands that vacated their spot with its own and pressing as much of its weight as it could on top of him without bothering his injuries further. He tried to throw whoever his new assailant was off, locking his hands around a pair of pale wrists holding his shoulders down. But that did nothing. They were unmovable like a brick house; the only thing that resulted from his efforts was more weight being pushed down on top of him.

“Dammit lieutenant, at ease!” an all too familiar gravelly voice shouted. König flinched, the gruff command snapping him from the depths of his panic and wrenching him into a false sense of security. His body relaxed, not of his own accord, with trained pathways taking over. A small mercy in the storm.

He continued to hold onto Ghost like the Brit was some sort of lifeline, but settled onto the bed, nothing but pure, hard-engraved training keeping his body lax.

With the false sense of security came the all-too-sudden awareness of the sharp pinch of an IV catheter in his arm, the blinding lights that were blaring down on top of him, the hazy sludge in his head from strong painkillers, the drowsy weakness in his limbs, and the numbing scent of disinfectant—masking sickness and death. His lower torso burned and itched—a dull pain that only got worse the longer he concentrated on it. He reached down to touch it, but Ghost was quick to grab his hand.

“Don’t,” he warned, his fingers tightening around König’s wrist in emphasis. “You’ve already torn open your stitches.”

“I—” König started but cut himself off by swallowing, noticing just how dry and sore his throat was. He blinked, trying to remove the fuzziness from the edges of his vision and process what was just said. He could hear the words clearly, but it seemed his mind was still lagging behind.

Just as he started to get his bearings straight, medical staff rushed into the room, no doubt on high alert from the screaming and crying he’d admitted earlier. Suddenly, a new wave of panic hit him as he realized he didn’t have his hood. His body began to strain against Ghost’s hold, trying to curl in on itself to protect his face from prying eyes.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬.

𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦.

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺!

“König breath. You’re fine, mate. They just need to look you over,” Gaz said somewhere to his left. The brits tone, despite being calm and soothing, was filled with what König was certain was pity—the kind you see when you look upon an old, beaten-down dog begging for food on the streets. Only in his case, instead of scraps, he was begging to be let go and left alone—alone in his misery and sorrow, to be forgotten about and tossed away.

“You heard the man, at ease.” Ghost demanded once again, his voice stern and filled with authority, having picked up on how that seemed to forcefully reboot König's body into a state of calm. He was confused when the Austrian continued to struggle before his eyes slightly widened in realization, watching as König tried to bury his face into the pillow on the bed. "You’re covered; don't worry," Ghost said, his voice low and surprisingly soft. König tensed, stopping his struggle against Ghost’s iron-like hold, feeling his face flush as he finally became aware of the soft feeling of fabric covering his nose and mouth, confirming Ghost’s words. It wasn’t his usual hood, probably a medical mask, but it did cover the majority of his lower face. Had he had the mask on the whole time? Normally, when he woke up in hospitals, his face was always left barren and exposed to the world.

𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦.

A nurse moved in with a syringe, going to pick up the medication line attached to the Austrian’s IV, but was stopped by Ghost waving his hand. “I can handle ‘im,” he said. She paused and looked about ready to ignore the announcement, but one sternful look from Ghost’s penetrating gaze had her singing a different tune, recapping the needle and backing off.

“If he acts up again I’m putting him back under,” she muttered.

“Dutifully noted,” Ghost responded. He turned back to König. “They have to check your stitches. Stay calm,” he ordered, and took a step back, making room for the medical staff to work, yet leaving one hand resting on the Austrian’s shoulder.

König wanted to argue, but the stern demand spoken by Ghost kept him from speaking, his neural pathways having been warped into those of an enlisted man dedicated to being the perfect soldier, always following orders, never questioning or arguing back. A tool to be used and nothing more.

Before he could go full barrel down the self-deleterious cycle that was his mind, his attention was drawn to a sharp sizzle radiating from his abdomen. He hissed but allowed his freshly torn wound to be cleaned and resown with a stern chiding from the nurse and covered by fresh bandages. He uttered a soft apology. All the while, Ghost stayed as close as he could, his hand resting on his shoulder, slightly tensing whenever König made any sudden movements. No matter how small.

Once the nurses were done, König sagged back into the bed, all fight leaving his body. It was a profound exhaustion one could only describe as bone-deep that finally hit him at full force despite having a wave of energy still coursing through him—a torrent of adrenaline buzzing under his skin, keeping him wide awake.

Gott, he was getting sick of this. Next time he's in the hospital, it better be because he was actually dead. This was getting old.

Ghost backed away, finally deeming him sane enough not to completely go off into some panicked rampage.

“Welcome back to the land o' the livin’, you tough bastard,” Gaz joked, smiling down at him from the corner he huddled himself into. König slightly turned to face the Sergeant.

“Where are we?” He croaked, his voice barely recognizable. He regretted the action as soon as he did it; his throat felt like it was filled with nails scraping along the inner edges. Weren’t they supposed to offer you water by now?

“Hospital in Winterthur. Got you transferred ere’ from the field. You gave us all quite the scare. Especially Soap. I don’ think I’ve seen ‘im that shook up in a while.”

König took a deep breath, swallowing in an attempt to force the nonexistent saliva in his mouth to go down his throat, hoping it would act as some type of soothing agent. “Is—is everyone," a pause as he swallowed. "Everyone alright? Soap? He oka—y? You alright?"

“Everyone made it out with minimal injury,” Ghost answered, his voice having its usual nonchalant gruff tone. Though the look in his eyes was different. It seemed like there was something more he wanted to say, but König couldn’t quite place exactly 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 it was.

“Yeah, all but one…” Gaz mumbled.

Ghost didn’t turn to face Gaz like König was expecting him to, nor did he say anything; it was like he didn't care at all, but König knew that wasn't the case. He could see the Sergeant's words had gotten to the lieutenant. There was no face paint, no gear, or full-coverage mask to hide the normally emotionally concealed man he’s come to know as Ghost. There was only a black medical mask to hide behind and a simple gray hoodie. No doubt meant to be respectful and more appropriate in the location he was in. Which meant König could easily watch as dark blonde eyebrows scrunched toward each other, eyes slightly narrowed and angry, while also watching as Ghost's jaw clenched under the medical mask he was wearing and see how his shoulders tensed—a small action that would normally be hidden with all the gear the lieutenant wore.

For a moment, the Austrian was sure the room was going to stay filled with the unbearable silence that followed Gaz's words—nothing but the small beeps of his heart monitor providing solace in the quiet. Then, after what felt like an eternity but was surely only seconds, Ghost finally broke through the silence.

“You should leave and get some rest,” he said, his voice reminding König of the calm before a storm. There was little difference in how he had spoken before, but König could sense the underlying anger in the Brits tone.

“What? No,” Gaz said, his shoulders straightening as his eyes narrowed at the taller man in front of him. “You can’t just kick me out! And ‘Im not just gonna roll over an’—”

“That’s an order, 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵.”

Gaz bit his lip, nostrils flaring. He clearly wanted to say more, but the reminder of his and Ghost’s difference in rank clearly caused him a moment's hesitance. No doubt, accompanied by the knowledge of just 𝘸𝘩𝘰 he was arguing with. He glanced over at König, like he needed some form of confirmation that the Austrian was alright, before he sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Fine,” he relented. “But if anythin’ changes, you come get me.” Gaz demanded, giving Ghost a glare before he turned and walked out. Ghost followed him and stopped just before he would exit the room and shut the door. He turned around, crossing his arms, and leaned his back against the door, staring at König with hard eyes filled with annoyance and a hint of anger. Gott, he stared so much... It seemed to be the one thing König could see that was similar between Ghost and Soap; they both stared like their lives depended on it.

“I didn’t ask for you to save me.” Ghost finally spoke up after a few minutes. “But I do remember askin’ you if you were good to be on the field and you 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥.”

König’s jaw clenched. “I—”

“I don' want to hear your excuses. You were reckless, sloppy, and completely out of it out there.” Ghost walked towards the Austrian, words growing louder with each step. “Not once did you check in with the team. It was pure luck that you didn’t get someone other than yourself injured or worse, 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥. I may not know what went on between you and Price, but fuck, just—Why did you do it!?” Ghost demanded, now only a few feet from the Austrian’s bed.

König tensed but forced himself to meet Ghost's gaze. He expected there to be nothing but rage in the lieutenant’s eyes, but there was something else, something accompanying the anger.

Bewilderment.

Like Ghost was struggling to grasp some type of understanding that seemed to be just shy from being revealed. One second a house-trained animal so used to being in control, so used to knowing everything, and the next, tossed out onto the streets with no knowledge on how to defend itself.

“What?” The Austrian asked for a lack of better words. He wasn't sure what Ghost was exactly asking him. What he was even looking for. Was he asking why he was so reckless? Why he lied? Why he didn't check in with the team? Or was there something else? Something more?

Ghost’s eyes searched König’s own before he huffed, like it was some inconvenience to elaborate on the meaning behind his own question. Then he took a deep breath, fist clenching and unclenching at his side, and looked away, walking over to the only chair in the room and sitting down. For once, he didn’t try to force his gaze on the Austrian; instead, he kept his eyes on the floor space between him and König.

“Why did you push me ou’ of the way like tha?” he asked after a second, his voice calmer than before but still seething with anger. “We both know you could have avoided being injured if you hadn't interfered.”

König blinked, completely taken off guard. He’d been expecting a lot of things for Ghost to ask, but not that. Anything but that.

He swallowed, turning away and looking down at the tousled blanket in his lap, suddenly unable to keep his gaze centered on the lieutenant anymore. He curled a loose strand between his fingers as he replayed that question in his head.

𝘞𝘩𝘺?

He bit the inside of his cheek. He knew why, but would Ghost accept his words? Call him a liar? Or would it just throw the masked man into a deeper fit of rage?

𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵, he supposed and took a deep breath before barreling head first into the storm that awaited him.

“Because this team needs you, not me. I’m a soldier on loan who can always be replaced.” 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘵.

König didn’t see Ghost raise his head to look at him; he was too occupied with calming his nerves by fiddling with the hospital blanket in his lap, but he felt the unmistakable icy feeling of Ghost’s eyes boring into him. He braced for the harsh words sure to fall out of the lieutenant's mouth, maybe mockery, but they never came. Ghost only stared as if he had lost all ability to speak. He didn't even move; he just sat there like a statue, and König made no move to break the silence, instead allowing it to linger in the air between them.

He was grateful to some extent that Ghost didn’t try to take pity on him with fake words of denial, saying he was an asset to the team and that he was worth something. He didn’t deserve the effort of those words. Not after everything he’s done. Not after the screams of agony he’s ripped from his enemies lungs, the pleads for mercy he’s forced from frightened soldiers lips, the blood he’s spilled so easily like he was pouring a glass of wine instead of taking another person's life, the sorrow he’s caused mothers and fathers to feel as they learned the loss of their sons and daughters, the feeling of ambivalent he brought to siblings as they tried to function through everyday life like nothing ever happened, and the tragic cries of widowed spouses wishing for nothing but the love of their lives to return home he’s forced to be released into the world for everyone to hear.

If anything, he deserved worse than to have Ghost dig into him and agree with what he said (like König knew Ghost does). He deserved to have been left to bleed out in that townhouse, forgotten, and left alone in his misery.

As König fell deeper into the endless abyss that was his mind, filled with self-hatred and guilt, Ghost continued to stare, never taking his eyes off him, instead opting to quietly observe. He tried, but found he didn’t know what to say to all 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. He didn’t even know where to begin. He was an excellent operator, not a socialist after all. He’s never been good with feelings—with people. In his element, he was deadly and efficient. Take him out of his element, and well, he became an entirely different person, almost unsure of himself and those around him, like he didn’t know how to handle everyday life any longer. He knew how to handle Soap, the other members of the 141, and the soldiers on base, but when confronted with König, it seemed he always had to take a step back and process him.

“You were distracted on the field, why?” Ghost finally decided on asking after nearly twenty minutes of silence. It was the only thing he could formulate as a response to the Austrian’s confession. He was deflecting, trying to change the topic, he knew that. But it was the only thing he knew how to do. He wasn’t like Johnny who could understand others emotions and express what he felt effortlessly and without fail. He wasn’t Simon anymore. He was just the shallow husk of the man who once was. Damaged and broken beyond repair.

König flinched at the sudden reminder of Ghost’s presence before, in an attempt to make himself look smaller, he hunched down on the bed. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t. He had to answer. Ghost wouldn’t leave him alone otherwise. “My brother.”

“Brother?” Ghost questioned. He remembered reading somewhere in König’s file that the Austrian had a brother, but if he remembered correctly, which he did, said brother was currently under the radar, whereabouts unknown.

“I hadn't heard from him since I joined the army, leaving him to rot with no one to care for him,” König elaborated. “He is—𝘸𝘢𝘴 an addict.”

Ghost’s hands pressed harder together, where they lay resting between his knees, his forearms resting on his thighs.

𝘞𝘢𝘴, the word echoed in his mind. König had said his brother was an addict. There was only one outcome to this. He didn't need König to explain. He knew all too well what it was like to have an addict as a family member. What that could lead to.

“I had heard about him getting into drugs a few months after I joined, and instead of trying to help him, I ignored him and allowed for us to lose contact,” König continued, his voice slightly wavering. “I told myself he wasn’t my problem anymore, that I was seventeen and I wasn’t his parent. He was nine and could take care of himself anyway.” König tried to laugh, but all that came out was a dry croak. “All because I didn’t want to go back to that house. Back to the filth of the place.” König sighed, his breath hitching near the end. “I let him suffer on his own until..." he trailed off, swallowing as he tried to hold back the tears that threatened to fall.

𝘌𝘳𝘣ä𝘳𝘮𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘏𝘦𝘶𝘭𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘦, he thought.^[13]

He wasn’t some child anymore. He shouldn’t cry. He was a soldier. A 𝘮𝘢𝘯. Hell, he shouldn’t even be talking about this. Feelings were nothing but a weakness. Something you never showed in front of another person. But the flood had started, and he couldn’t stop now, his hands gripping the blanket so tight that his knuckles turned white. Gone was the intimidating giant so many rumors talked about. Only a broken and guilt-ridden man left in its place.

“Until he finally overdosed,” König finished, his voice cracking. His shoulders hunched as he allowed his head to hang low, his hair moving to fall around his face. “When Price asked if I was okay to go on the mission, I knew what could happen if I went but I didn’t care. As long as I completed the mission and got the rest of you out, that was good enough. It didn't matter what happened to me. That's why, when I saw you in the way of the crossfire, I pushed you. KorTac can always send another soldier—a 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 soldier to take my position. This team can’t replace you.“

“Yer aff yer fuckin’ heid!” A familiar Scottish accent echoed through the room. Both soldiers turned their heads to face the source of the sound only to be met with the sight of a very angry looking Scotsman standing in the doorway. Soap.

König felt his blood run cold. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? He silently panicked. When had the door even opened?

“After everythin’ you really think I'd be ok with you using yerself as a human shield?! Tha any o’ us would be ok with you tossin’ yer life away!?”

“I—” König started but was cut off. In one swift movement, Soap had made his way from the doorway, and before he could even register the fact the Sergeant had moved, he was already being yanked up by the front of his hospital gown, face inches from the mohawked man.

“Shut yer bloody mouth you bambot an’ listen!” he spat. “I don’ give a bloody fuck bout yer past! It wasn't yer damn fault your brother killed himself, you hear me!?”

“Johhny—” Ghost started, but was instantly cut off by the Scotsman’s stone cold glare landing on him followed by, “I don’ wanna hear a word outta you! I told ya to wake me up the moment he came to! Instead I was told by a nurse!”

Ghost didn’t try to say anything to that, instead he just sighed and leaned back in his chair, leaving König to fend for himself. It was rare Soap ever yelled at him, even rarer for him to get royally pissed off like this.

Ghost glanced back at the Austrian being held hostage by Soap, face as unreadable as his skull mask.

𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶? He silently thought.

König was none the wiser to Ghost’s silent observation, still focused on the Sergeant’s death-like grip on him. “Soap—” he tried once again to talk with the Scotsman.

“I told you to 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱 and listen,” Soap demanded, turning back to König. The Austrian clamped his mouth shut and stared wide-eyed at Soap, right into eyes that were no longer filled with the usual welcoming light that seemed to put even the sun’s to shame, now shadowed with anger, hurt, and...betrayal. As if Soap had been lulled into a trap by König.

“You did wha ye’ ha'ta do to fuckin’ survive, you hear me? It wasn't yer responsibility to take care of yer brother! Tha was yer parents job!”

König clenched his jaw. “You’re wrong…” he argued, voice hollow and broken.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥.

“Like hell I am! That’s yer guilt talkin’ an’ I don’ want to hear it! You shouldn't blame yo—”

With a shout of rage, König grabbed Soap by the front of his jacket and shoved him to arm’s length, his eyes filled with anger, pools of honey solidifying into tarnished gold. He was vaguely aware of Ghost sitting up at full alert, ready to jump from his seat and pin him down, but König didn't care.

"YES, I SHOULD!” he roared, drawing himself to his full height, ignoring the sharp pain from his stitches tugging on his skin again. He never wanted Soap to see this, to see the monster, but it was always a matter of time. It was better to rip the band-aid off and get it over with now. Then maybe Soap would finally just leave him 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦.

“I SHOULDN'T HAVE ABANDONED HIM! HE WAS ONLY NINE!” König screamed, each word being punched out of his chest. “I should've stayed! Instead, I left him to fend for himself in a home with an alcoholic who couldn't even tell you the time of day and an abusive son of a bitch who beat you until you couldn't see straight!”

He was screaming so loud his voice was cracked and raw, face red, and the medical mask damp with his spittle. He could hear the beeping of his heart monitor quickening and could feel the pain building from his injuries. He knew he shouldn’t keep shouting and that he should try to salvage whatever opinion Soap had before he saw him like this, but he couldn’t stop; it was too late. He was already spiraling down into the inevitable crash that came from years of repression and pain.

“I was selfish!”

“You were a 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥!” Soap reasoned.

“I should have been there for him!” König shot back, dismissing Soap’s attempt to deceive him into believing a lie instead of the ugly truth. “I should've looked for him when I found out! I shoul— I should've— I—”

König felt the sudden feeling of a lack of air in his lungs, the world swaying a little as he gasped for more oxygen. It was 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦. Unlike any other time he had a panic attack, this one was accompanied by an unbearable pain bursting from inside his ribcage, scorching him from his core.

Soap instantly wrapped his arms around König and forced his way onto the bed, one knee on the edge as he held onto the Austrian, keeping König up right. “𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦, we need a doctor!” he shouted, holding König in a tight grip as the Austrian shook and sobbed while gasping for air. Through it all, Soap whispered apologies and words meant to comfort.

The last thing König remembered was seeing the look of fear and guilt on Soap’s face through blurry vision before medical pushed the Sergeant aside, and he fell into sleeps awaiting arms.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next time König came to, he was lying back down on the hospital bed, fully covered by the blanket. His throat hurt even more than the last time he'd woken up, but he was comforted by the knowledge that he still had a medical mask covering his face.

He glanced around, noticing the room was barren, unlike last time. No Ghost, no Gaz, and no Soap.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥, he thought.

He glanced outside through the only window in the room, noticing it was starting to get dark out. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he last woke up or since the mission, but he wasn’t about to search someone out and ask. He’d done enough talking for the time being.

A few minutes of silence passed with nothing but his heart monitor to keep him company, and König was practically itching to move. He wasn’t fully sure what his injuries were; he was only really aware of the stitches in his abdomen, but he needed to move.

He threw his blanket back, shifting to sit at the edge of the bed, and immediately felt the pain from his abdomen spike along with a new pain near his hip. He took a deep breath.

“𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦,” he breathed out.

“What the hell are you doing?”

König tensed, glancing up to see Ghost standing in the doorway, cup of coffee in hand. Thankfully, he wasn't accompanied by Soap. König wasn’t sure he could handle seeing the Sergeant after his….𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘵. At least with Ghost, he knew he had no respect to begin with from the man.

“I need to walk around,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse and completely unrecognizable, slightly wincing at the pain in his throat from the action.

“No,” Ghost denied.

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” König shot back, his eyes narrowing at Ghost. He'd blame the painkillers later. He was just so tired and done with everything. This hospital, the mental and physical exhaustion, the guilt, the shame, and Ghost’s constant hovering to watch for the slightest mistake to use against him. Which he finally got. It was only a matter of time before he returned to the 141 and was told by Price he was being sent back to KorTac, only to find out he didn't have a base to return to because he would most likely lose his job with KorTac because of this. Therefore, leaving him stranded with no place to go. Trying to find work on his own wouldn’t be easy. It wasn’t like he could go out on his own as a freelance operator. He needed to be affiliated with a larger group. And by this point in his life, he didn’t have any other options.

With no education past secondary school and what he’d received during his time in the military, not to mention what most would call PTSD, he would be useless out in the civilian world... Lost, with no one to support him. He couldn’t go back to his family. There was none left. He was completely and utterly fucked.

Ghost moved closer and set his cup of coffee down on a table. He crossed his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. “You’re dosed up on painkillers and have stitches on your stomach you've ripped 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘦 now. Not to mention the fractured ribs, punctured lung, and gash on your leg from where the bullet hit. Still want to say you're fine?”

König gave a small eyeroll and grumbled but didn't argue any further. It was just easier to surrender than trying to fight. Not only for his throat, but because, as much as he wanted to deny it, Ghost was right. He probably shouldn't try walking for long periods of time just yet. Still, there was one thing...

“You’re going to be moved back to the base tomorrow,” Ghost informed, interrupting König's thought process.

The Austrian didn’t say anything for a moment, instead choosing to stare at Ghost as he considered the man's words. It made sense. Price’s probably been wanting him back for however long he's been held up lying here in bed for. Politics were probably starting to get too unreliable, and the man most likely didn't want any unnecessary risk or paperwork. Speaking of... “How long have I been here?” König asked, finally speaking the small question that had been simmering in the back of his head. It would be a waste to pass up the opportunity now that the topic had been brought up.

“Six days,” Ghost answered. "You were in out of consciousness most of the time."

König hummed. Six days wasn’t too bad. He's been stuck in hospitals much longer than that before with the majority of the time spent fully awake.

He glanced at Ghost then the bathroom door, fingers tapping on the bed mattress. He could probably make it; he was certainly drugged up on enough painkillers. The pain would be manageable. He really just needed to move, to 𝘴𝘦𝘦.

König sighed and unsteadily stumbled to stand, only to find Ghost’s hand supporting him from his elbow, like the lieutenant had read his mind. He didn't say anything, trying to hide his annoyance at just how perceptive Ghost was, and gratefully, Ghost didn't scold him for trying to walk even after telling him not to, instead continuing to silently offer his help.

Despite the offer from Ghost, König tried to put most of his weight against the metal pole hosting his multiple IV lines in the few steps it took to get to the bathroom. Instantly he leaned against the sink once he was inside and out of sight from Ghost behind the bathroom's closed door, already feeling exhausted. He took a few deep breaths, wincing with each inhale.

After he finally caught his breath, König opened his hospital gown and peeled away the bandage lining his abdomen. He had to see it. Had to know how bad it was. He bared his teeth and hissed through them, the tug of the surgical-grade tape causing his skin to painfully pull away from the adhesive. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it was sore and inflamed.

It had all happened so fast—a split-second decision, one he didn’t regret. He’d shoved Ghost to the side, allowing the hailstorm of bullets to rain down on himself instead.

König had promised he would get everyone out, and that's what he did. The rest didn't matter.

Angry and red, his skin puckered under the pressure of the stitches that held him together. Something so small and simple to keep him from dying. Funny how the slightest pull could cause him to bleed out and die in an instant.

Before he really knew what he was doing his hand was moving down to touch the sutures, the urge to pick at them quickly taking over, and without the interference from Ghost he was able to watch as dried blood flaked away under his nails, fresh beads seeping out fast behind it. The pull hurt, but not nearly enough to stop him from creating the trail of blood that seeped down his abdomen. It was slow, nowhere near the river that had almost killed him, more similar to the slight trickle from a faucet half turned on. His muscles bobbed, breaths shallow and weak as his fingers dug harder into his flesh, wanting to pull the irritating material out so it would stop itching. Seriously, did they have to stick so many things on him? First the heart monitor electrode pads, then the IV, now stitches and bandages.

A sudden knock on the bathroom door made König jump, pulling his hand away like it had been burned.

“Hurry up,” Ghost’s voice demanded from the other side of the bathroom door.

König rolled his eyes, quietly grumbling under his breath, but walked over and flushed the toilet despite not having used it, wiping away as much blood as he could with a piece of toilet paper, shoving the bandage back over his wound, and rinsing his hands off as thoroughly and quickly as he could. He knew Ghost would notice the smallest of details.

Once satisfied, König opened the door. “You’re an impatient person…” he grumbled, not pleased by the interruption. Now his wound just itched even more.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “Five minutes was plenty of time.”

König blinked. Had it really been five minutes? He could've sworn he was in there for a minute at most.

“You wasted your energy. I was almost done,” König retorted, not wanting to give Ghost the satisfaction of feeling smug.

Ghost scoffed. “Sure you were,” he deadpanned, the slightest hint of teasing evident in his tone.

König slouched against the doorframe, his body too heavy for him to support any longer, and stared at Ghost for a moment in confusion. The man was…confusing, to say the least. He could never get a proper read on him. For instance, the lieutenant already got his answers and thoroughly chewed him out earlier. There was no reason for him to be here. After all, the medical staff could've told him he was going back to T.F. 141's base tomorrow, so what was Ghost’s purpose for coming here? One moment he was glaring daggers at him, and the next he was…what? Caring enough to check in on him?

“Why did you come here?” König asked, voicing his question. He could stand there and ponder all day about what could possibly be the reason for Ghost’s sudden shift in behavior, but he knew it would get him nowhere. His brain was too fuzzy from the meds, and no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be able to understand the complexities of the brain belonging to the man in front of him. His best shot was simply to ask.

Ghost eyed him for a moment, his eyes studying him like they were searching for some hidden motive before he sighed. “Johnny,” he answered, like that was all he needed to say, and strangely enough, it was.

König’s seen how Soap looks at Ghost, like he's the center of his world. He wouldn’t pretend to know what was between the two soldiers, but… well, he couldn't deny one of the reasons why he took the fall for Ghost was because of Soap. Granted, he hadn’t expected the Scotsman to care so much about him getting hurt and was certainly shocked at Soap’s outburst earlier, but that didn't change the fact that he knew if Soap had to choose between him and Ghost taking the fall, Soap would have chosen him.

In all honesty, König wasn't sure Soap would ever recover if anything happened to Ghost. And König wouldn't blame Soap for choosing him to take the fall instead of Ghost. Soap’s a good man after all. He shouldn’t have to go through losing someone he loves. König was just a temporary fixation that Soap would lose interest in soon enough anyway, assuming he didn't already give up on him after his outburst.

“Okay,” König said.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

König kept his eyes low, avoiding the stares he received and the inaudible whispers echoing around him. He felt exposed, despite finally having his hood thoroughly placed on his face.

He’d been brought back to 141's base about three days ago, and talk about his previous mission was still going as strong as the day he came back. Still, there was only so long he could huddle away in his room, and as much as he'd like to continue doing that for at least a couple more days, he couldn’t exactly ignore Price’s request to see him. Not to mention his doctors had told him this was around the time he needed to start moving around.

Incredibly, the shot that penetrated his leg didn’t break the bone and the bullet in his abdomen was partially obscured by the heavy layers of tactical gear he was wearing. He had fractured ribs and a pierced lung, but, he’d survive.

All in all he should be happy.

He wasn’t.

König pinched the edge of his hood between his fingers as he walked—limped—down the hall leading to his inevitable doom, lightly tugging on it. This was it. This was when he got sent back, or worse, disregarded all together by everyone and everything he's ever known.

Each step closer to Price's door raised his anxiety, nothing but a thick, sickly ooze in his guts, settled deep with no intention of abating. Dark—gnawing away until there was nothing left but the hollowed pit of his stomach. He wanted to throw up… but knew he couldn’t be late. Still, he gave a quick longing glance at the bathroom door just down the hall before sighing. The only thing he could do was suck it up and deal with the nausea at this point. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could pack his things and leave anyway.

König raised his hand, bringing his knuckles up to tap against Price’s door. He paused for a moment, waiting for some type of acknowledgement. For a split-second he allowed himself to think Price wasn’t there but, before he could get his hopes up, he heard Price's unmistakable voice saying, “Come in.”

𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘨𝘰…

“You requested my presence, sir?”

“Hm? Oh, right. Take a seat lad,” Price said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. König ducked his head, entering the room and shutting the door before sitting down. He squeezed his hands together in his lap, trying to focus on not fidgeting this time around.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.

“How are the wounds healing?”

“Oh,” König shifted slightly, inwardly sighing. It seemed Price was going to draw this out. Oh well, nothing he could really do about that. “Ahm, good… Dank– Thank you for asking.”

Price hummed. “Glad to hear it. You’re an excellent operator.”

König bit his tongue, his hands squeezing tighter in his lap. Dammit, couldn’t Price just get on with it already? Why couldn’t he just tell him he was no longer of use and be done with it? What was it with him and trying to make him feel like he actually mattered?

“I understand you sustained your injuries from pushing Ghost out of the way from enemy fire. Is tha true?” Price asked.

“Yes, sir.” There was no point in lying about anything; Price would know right away. There’s no way the captain didn’t know the answer already if he was asking such a direct question. One of those probing jabs that were thrown out to get the information straight from the source instead of relying on hearsay.

“You're a good lad, König,” Price said, his voice stern and filled with the usual authority you would expect from a captain but also having an underlying tone of gratitude. “However,” Here it is. This was it. He was done. No way Price was going to allow him to stay. “There were reports saying you were seen taking ‘unnecessary risks’.”

Fear settled in König’s chest, a cold rising of his heart rate and the incessant vibration of involuntary tremors through his limbs. 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙩.

“I want to apologize.”

“I Understand, sir. I'm sorry for my behavior. I know I have been a disappointment to KorTac, you, and myself. I will go pack my things and— what?” König backtracked, completely dumbfounded. Did he hear that right?

Price sighed. “I know from your file you have a tendency to be reckless, lad. I shouldn’t ave’ sent you out there. Not after the news of your brother. Tha was on me. I should’ve kept you off the field. It’s no surprise to me your head wasn’t fully in the game.”

“Sir–”

Price raised his hand. “Even so, you still put the mission and team above everything else. Thanks to this fact, I’ve decided to let you serve out an additional three months to recover along with the time you have left on your contract. I’ve talked it over with your supervisors at KorTac, and they also agreed with my decision.”

To say König was speechless was an understatement. In his experience, one-on-ones with supervisors were like a death sentence, and sure, he knew Price was a good captain, probably one of the best he’s ever had, but this was just ridiculous. Any other supervisor would have sent him packing back to KorTac without a second thought, and here Price was giving him a second chance, one he didn’t even deserve.

“I— Dankeschön, sir,” König managed to say after a few seconds, still trying to wrap his mind around everything. There was no way this was real. He had to be in a coma still in the hospital and this was all just in his head, right?

“There's no need to thank me König. I’m just glad you’re still in one piece. You got quite the beating out there,” Price said.

“Thank you for the concern, but I am fine sir.”

“Maybe so, but you’re not in any way fit for active duty. That's why for the next three months, at the 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵, you will be off the field. Once you’ve recovered during that time and have been cleared by medical, you can return to active duty. This is non-negotiable, understood?”

König dug his nails into the skin on the top side of his clasped hands, biting back the words of disagreement he wanted so desperetly to let out.

"Ja, understood sir," he said with a sigh.

This was going to be a long three months.

Chapter Text

König shifted on his bed, hoping the different position offered some respite, only to grimace at the fiery pain that rippled through his body. He let out a heavy sigh, squeezing his eyes shut as he took deep breaths, trying to get the pain to disperse quicker.

For the past hour or so, he’s been trying to subtly shift positions to find something at least halfway comfortable, but nothing seemed to help, not when every movement pulled at the very stupid, unfamiliar, itchy, coarse material known as stitches embedded in his skin. He could swear his skin was on fire if he didn't know any better.

Every moment, he wanted to pick at them, but he knew that would only lead to more recovery time, so instead, he picked at the sheets of his bed, pulling the strings and pieces of fabric.

It had only been two days since his sentence was cast down upon him by Price, and he was already going stir crazy.

Besides the occasional walk to the bathroom or cafeteria, he never left his room and stayed locked away, normally a reprieve from the rest of the world but now a punishment. He felt like he was some feral animal, caged away from the rest of society.

And, sure, it wasn’t like Price had said he was bound to the confinements of his room during his three-month recovery, and he was technically supposed to be moving around (doctors orders), but there was no way he was going to walk the halls of a base that had gossiping soldiers around every corner with their little beady eyes staring into him, watching his every movement. He wasn’t some zoo attraction for their entertainment. Besides, the pain that ricocheted throughout his body from just shifting on a 𝘣𝘦𝘥 was nothing compared to the exhaustion and pain brought on by actual walking. He’d rather stay cooped up in his room silently going crazy than be objectified to the attention and pain.

The sound of a knock echoing throughout his room drew König’s attention away from his self-pity. He glanced over at the door, deciding he was just going to ignore whoever it was, before a muffled Scottish accent asked, “König?” making him sigh in defeat.

It was Soap. Of course it was. He knew it was only a matter of time before the Scotsman finally showed up to bother him. So far, it had only been Roach and Gaz stopping by to check in on him. Guess it was finally Soap’s turn. And knowing the sergeant, he wouldn’t leave until he was told to. Still, that didn’t stop König from staying as quiet as possible, hoping Soap would think he actually left his room for one of his rare outings.

“C'mon, mate, I know yer in there.” Soap spoke up again.

König bit the inside of his cheek, still staying silent. There went that idea. Go figures.

“König,” Another knock. “Are you ok?”

König sighed. He hated this. He didn’t know why Soap was still trying with him, still 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 about him. After everything that happened in the hospital room, Soap should’ve just decided he was too broken and damaged to waste time on anymore. He should’ve found a new toy to play with, but here he was still trying. To say Soap was stubborn was an understatement.

König clenched his fist into his blanket. Was Soap really so determined to keep him around as a little pet he could play with until he finally got bored and tossed him away? When he cared too much about Soap to just brush off the dismissal and continue on with his life?

König heard a long drawn-out sigh from behind his door, perfectly visioning Soap running his hand through his mohawk like he always did anytime he was stressed.

“Dammit, don’ make me break down this door König because I will. I mean, yeah, sure, Price will be pissy bout’ it but tha—” Soap clamped his mouth shut as the door swung open, revealing a very exhausted Austrian. Even with König’s hazardously thrown-on hood, Soap could see from the bags under his eyes, showing through the holes in his mask, and posture that he was barely standing.

“Bout time ya came to the door,” Soap said, a small teasing smile making it’s way across his face. Though that did nothing to disguise the worry line of his brow. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck…” König mumbled, words slightly scratchy. He hadn’t been doing much talking lately.

“Yeah I can see tha.”

“What do you want?” König asked, inwardly flinching at just how much bite his voice had.

Soap paid no mind to his tone. “Well, Gaz, Roach, an’ I are watchin’ a movie an’ yer comin’ with.”

“What? Nein, I—”

“Ah, ah, ah! I don’ wanna hear it!” Soap cut König off, waving a finger in his face before he crossed his arms over his chest. “I know you haven’t been exercising like the doctors want ya to. So, unless you never want Price to clear ya for duty, yer gonna take a walk with me to the rec room an’ get some exercise from it, along with the bonus of a movie.”

König stared at Soap for a moment, struggling to find an argument. It wasn’t exactly like he could say he didn’t want to go because clearly Soap didn’t care. Not to mention, he had a point. If he wanted to be cleared, he really needed to start exercising despite the pain. A few walks around his room or to the bathroom and cafeteria weren’t going to get him back to the field.

“Ok,” König said, shoulders slumping slightly in defeat.

Soap grinned. “Brilliant. We just need to make a quick pit stop.” He held up a sketchpad. “I just got done doing a little bit o’ doodilin’ an’ I want to drop this off at my room.”

“I can wait here—”

“Nope. Yer gonna get as much exercise as possible big guy. C’mon,” Soap said, turning and beckoning König to follow. König, despite feeling rooted to the ground, managed to step out of his room and shut his door, following behind Soap.

He couldn’t help but remember the last time he went to Soap’s room, feeling the sense of fear and dread that came with it. After all this wasn’t 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 Soap’s room, but Ghost’s too. A room he should under any circumstances avoid. He could only hope Ghost wasn’t there this time around.

Before long, he was standing in front of the door that stood as a barrier between safety and the danger that came with unknown territory. He watched as Soap unlocked the door and held his breath as the sergeant swung it open, breaking down the protective wall.

It was dark inside, with blackout curtains over the windows. Something König wouldn’t expect from Soap but would of Ghost. A stark reminder of just how dangerous it was for him to be there.

The jitters really set in then, his body close to vibrating. He was thankful that Ghost appeared to be out at the moment.

He glanced around, despite the fear, trying to familiarize himself with Soap and Ghost’s room, pushing down the guilt that came with the action. It would probably be his one and only chance to see a glimpse of the life the two shared together. The one chance he’d get to even gain the slightest hint of who Ghost really was when he wasn’t constantly on high alert.

As König looked around, the first thing he noticed was that it was a pretty nice room; it even had—which he wasn’t jealous of, thank you very much—a bathroom, but that was to be expected when one of the inhabitants of the room had the rank to back it.

The furnishings weren’t military issue, no doubt greenlit by Price so Ghost and Soap could have a more cozy place to relax when they weren’t in the field. König wondered briefly if Ghost even had a home or apartment outside the base, or if this was where he permanently nested.

A sad thought, this being the lieutenant's entire life, but König couldn’t judge, not when his room shared with Horangi was the closest thing he had to a “safe place,” as one would call it. A home.

As König looked around, his attention got drawn to a large desk covered with books, sketches, and random pieces of gear. Nowhere near organized or tidy and surrounded by more refined drawings tacked to the wall. Most of the drawings were—unsurprisingly—of Ghost, most likely drawn in secret while he and Soap lounged around in the room together.

There was one that really caught König’s attention: Ghost maskless, but, most likely out of respect, the lower portions of the lieutenant's face were covered with yellow sticky notes. It was sweet in a way. Sweet that Soap cared enough for Ghost that he’d cover up the work he put so much time, concentration, and effort into to respect the man’s boundaries, even in the comfort of their room.

The sound of a throat clearing followed by "Alright, big guy, I’m ready to go" from Soap drew König’s attention away from the drawing and over to the Scottsman as he walked towards him.

König stared for a moment at Soap’s green hoodie, which he hadn’t been wearing before, realizing Soap probably noticed him cataloging the room and gave him a little extra time by changing into a hoodie to look around without making him feel awkward. König silently reprimanded himself for getting so distracted and looking like a creep, feeling his cheeks flush under the hood.

“Let's go meet the others, aye?” Soap asked.

König nodded. “Ja.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gaz turned on the TV, leaning back into the couch cushions as he scrolled through the multitude of movies flashing across the TV screen, each failing to grab his attention. He glanced over at the rec room door and sighed.

“You think Soap will be able to get him to come?” He asked after a moment.

“I think Soap is a hard person to say no to,” Roach said, in full, complete honesty. “I also think König is someone who can be surprisingly stubborn.”

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦, Roach silently thought.

Gaz hummed. “So what yer sayin’ is it’s pretty much anybody's guess?”

“Yep.”

“Wow, thanks for yer input. Very enlightening,” Gaz said, his voice full of sarcasm.

“Hey, you asked; I answered,” Roach said, shrugging from where he sat on the couch beside Gaz.

Gaz rolled his eyes, grumbling a little bit before his face fell to one of a more serious stature.

“Do you think König’s gonna be ok? After, y’know…” Gaz trailed off, his voice devoid of its previous sarcastic mocking tone, now solemn.

Roach glanced over at Gaz through his peripheral vision and sighed.

“I think blamin’ yourself for the bad choices your brother made after you left to pursue your own life and finding out he died isn’t somethin’ you just recover from without needin’ some time. But I think he’ll be just fine.”

“Why’s tha?”

Roach turned to Gaz, a small smile forming on his face. “S’because he’s not going through this alone.”

Gaz grinned. “Aye, you can say that again.”

The door to the rec room opened, drawing both sergeant’s attention to the Scot and Austrian that walked through.

“Alright, we’re ere’! lets get this party started!” Soap announced as he walked into the room. König was trailing behind Soap, slightly limping, wearing his sniper hood as per usual and a black sweatshirt with gray sweatpants. He gave a small nod of greeting as he gingerly shut the door behind him.

“Bout bloody time you two got ere,” Gaz commented, feigning annoyance.

“Yeah, we though you’s never show,” Roach added.

“Haud yer wheesht,” Soap grumbled, walking towards the couch beside the one Roach and Gaz were on, sitting down and patting the empty spot next to him. “Over ere’, big guy,” he called.

König didn’t hesitate to shuffle over and take the seat next to him, wincing a bit from pain, leaving about a foot in between them. It was clear from the way he let out a deep breath that he’d used up any energy he had prior to Soap’s visit.

Soap frowned. The whole walk over, he could hear König’s breathing grow more labored, and now seeing how the Austrian flinched from just sitting wasn’t doing anything to snuff out his growing concern. At one point, he’d offered to help König walk but was instantly waved off by the taller man, and as much as Soap wanted to argue, he respected König’s wish. If he didn’t want help, then Soap wasn’t going to force him to accept his offer of it. That said, Soap did purposely slow down his walking pace and move a bit closer to König in case the Austrian looked like he was going to topple over.

“Which movie do you guys want to watch?” Gaz asked, and, just like a flip being switched, only instead of lights coming on, it was an instant quarrel of the three sergeant’s, Soap, Gaz, and Roach, debating which genre of movie they should pick from. König silently watched with amusement.

Ultimately, after about three minutes, they—at Gaz’s non-stop insistence—decided on a romance movie, much to Soap’s displeasure.

“Oh, c’mon!” Soap grumbled, seeing the title of the movie Gaz had declared they would watch. “I’ve already seen this one at 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 a hundred times with my sisters.”

Gaz rolled his eyes. “People who take forever showing up don’ get to argue. Besides, 𝘐 haven’t seen this one.”

Soap glared at Gaz. “Yeah, well what abou’ Roach and König, hm? Don’ they get a say in this?”

Gaz sighed. “Roach?” He called, turning to said sergeant. “Thoughts?”

“I’m fine with this one,” Roach said, smirking at the bird he received from Soap.

“Good,” Gaz said, turning to König. “How bout you big fella?”

König glanced between the three sergeants, each looking at him expectantly. He shifted a bit, clenching his jaw at the discomfort the action brought, before sighing. “I—well, the summary seems interesting,” he mumbled, not meeting anyone's gaze.

“Ah 𝙝𝙖!” Gaz cheered. “Even König’s interested! That makes it three to one, I win!”

“Fine, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦,” Soap said, flopping back into the couch cushions with his arms crossed, definitely 𝘯𝘰𝘵 pouting.

Gaz grinned victoriously and pressed play. Soap rolled his eyes, silently cursing his sisters and Gaz for liking rom-coms and the fact that movies were almost two hours long.

About ten minutes into the typical clicheness you would expect from this type of movie, König ever-so-slowly began easing into the couch’s cushions, allowing his body's muscles the relaxation they had been craving. This spurred Soap to do the same. He stretched out like a starfish, his legs stretching out in front of him, his body sinking a little further into the couch, his arms stretching over the back of the couch, one comfortably settling behind the Austrian’s shoulders.

It wasn’t 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 bad of a movie, Soap would admit. It was certainly one of the better ones he’s been forced to watch with his sisters. Still, rom-coms in general weren’t really his thing, and so, having already seen this movie and having very little interest in it, he decided to take pleasure in watching the reactions of his team. After all, probably the best thing about this movie is that the description fails to mention just how much sadness is in it.

Soap glanced over at König, curious about what his thoughts may be on the movie so far, only to be disappointed as he realized he couldn’t exactly read König’s expression from his current angle.

Soap huffed. He had been hoping to try and see what interested König and what didn't, but it seemed the universe had other plans.

At the fifty-minute mark, when the girl's father was on his deathbed, Soap smirked slightly while Gaz sniffled, a small tear falling down his face. His reactions were the only ones that had been interesting so far. König's he couldn’t make out from under the Austrian’s hood, and Roach had started to doze off a few minutes ago, showing that he himself wasn’t very interested in the movie and probably only agreed to fuck with Soap.

And after spending those last couple of minutes in serious contemplation, Soap decided now was the perfect time to enact his revenge. He reached into his pants pocket, grabbed an eraser he had been using earlier to sketch with, and threw it at Roach, startling the sergeant awake.

Roach instantly turned to glare at Soap. Said sergeant only shrugged saying, “You were missin’ a vital part of the movie 𝘺𝘰𝘶 wanted to see. I figured I would wake you up as a courtesy.”

Roach's eyes narrowed even more as he grumbled, a small, "Yeah, I’m sure that was your only intention,” being heard under his breath before he shifted in his spot, turning back around and sitting straighter to try and stay awake.

Soap grinned. He opened his mouth to send his own teaseful retort, but found his words stuck in his throat as he suddenly felt a weight on his arm, his body tensing out of surprise. When he looked over, he found that König had fallen asleep, head leaned back on his arm, eyes closed, relaxed, signifying he felt safe enough to let himself fall asleep. Soap couldn't help but softly smile, a small warmth settling in his chest.

The Austrian had seemed so exhausted earlier and even more so after walking around that Soap wasn’t even annoyed at the sudden weight on his arm; instead, he was glad König was regaining his energy, even if it was at the expense of one of his limbs.

Soap’s smile faltered, though, as his jaw clenched, an uncomfortable weight settling on top of him as his gaze shifted to König’s chest. He watched the rise and fall of even, steady breaths; images of that very chest rising rapidly and stiffly, covered in an ugly red, quickly flashing through his mind in place of the calm, gracious ones happening in that very moment.

𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸…

Soap took a small, deep breath, trying to stop the memories of what happened from rising further.

Despite his efforts all of the floodgates burst open when König’s breath hitched in his sleep, his body slightly tensing in pain.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨!” Ghost’s voice echoed across the room, drawing Soap’s attention away from the now-neutralized enemy. He felt his blood turn to ice as he saw Ghost rush forward and grab König, the Austrian completely slack in Ghost’s hold, crimson dripping from his leg and behind his vest.

“𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬!” Soap cursed, rushing over and helping to catch König, his body acting for him, drawn toward the Austrian without so much as a second thought. The Scotsman choked back his intake of breath, his hands tightening on König’s body as he helped Ghost lay him on the ground.

The state König was in lit something within him, a trigger that nothing else touched. His body itched to cause as much pain and suffering he could in an attempt to avenge the wrong doings their enemies had just enacted, to get revenge on who remained—who helped to lead to the Austrian’s flail and fickle state.

He felt so much rage, fury, and 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘥—but in that same moment, he felt an undeniable sensation of immense 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧.

His hands shook as he moved them and applied pressure to König’s wounds. He wanted to let the anger sizzling just below the surface out, but he knew he and Ghost needed to get König to the awaiting evac helo; there wasn’t time for revenge, not with König already knocking on death's door.

“C’mon we need to get him outta ere!” Soap barked at Ghost. Without a word, in less than a second, with barely a nod of acknowledgment, Ghost lifted König up, something Soap knew he wouldn’t have been able to do if he tried, and started heading for the exit. Soap was hot on Ghost’s heels while he mindlessly radioed the rest of the team to fill them in, his voice rushing ragged and wavering over the intercoms.

It was all mostly a blur. A blur of frantic movements and curses as they headed for evac. The only thing Soap could clearly remember is how lifless König looked in Ghost’s grasp, barely hanging on, and the words he spouted, trying to get König to respond—to stay with them.

“Fuck, fuck, shite, big guy, yer good,” Soap tried to comfort with desperate urgency. He positioned himself next to König's face, cradling it gently, his fingers trembling with the weight of the moment as Ghost set König down on the floor of the helo.

“Hey, come on, we got ya. You’re gonna be ok, yeah? Come on—König—hey, you just need to hang in there,” Soap said desperately, cursing, looking at König, waiting for him to say—to do anything to acknowledge he was still there, still 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

“Bloody fucking hell what happened!?” Gaz shouted getting on the evac, Roach right behind him. Soap didn’t answer, his eyes trained on König, watching the strained rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing. His heart was beating. He was still alive.

König coughed, blood trickling through the fabric of his hood.

"C-cold..." he managed, his voice feeble and strained. Exhaustion was clearly settling heavily over König, his weariness transcending physical pain.

“Hey, no. You need to stay awake. C’mon König, stay with me—𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨!”

Soap watched helplessly as König’s eyes fluttered shut.

He looked tired.

𝘚𝘰, 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥.

And Soap—felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. Though he didn’t know why. The one and only time he had ever felt like this was when Ghost went MIA on a mission around a year ago, four months, no contact, no information, just the unknown. He had thought Ghost was dead—no. Ghost 𝘩𝘢𝘥 been dead those four months, to Soap he had been gone forever with no chance of making a return.

Soap’s blood turned to ice in response, eyes slightly widening.

König could die.

He was going to die.

Ghost touched Soap’s arm—an act that would normally send comfort and electricity through his body, but not this time. The only feeling he had was a deep, guttural fear as he gripped König’s face.

He could see the blood seeping out of König’s body while the combat medics, three on board, worked to try and stabilize him to get him to a hospital. Soap refused to move from his spot, cradling König’s head as they worked, their voices loud and clear flooding through the air.

“Dammit, he’s losing too much blood,” one medic said.

“Bullet penetration in the right leg,” another noted.

“Blood type?”

“AB-.”

Soap stopped listening after that, more focused on hearing the ragged breaths König was exhaling. The only thing that pulled Soap out of his haze was when they transfered König off the evac and medics went to take König’s hood off. Ghost had nearly roared at them—catching Soap, and Ghost himself, completely off guard.

“Don’t 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 touch that!” Ghost barked, slightly stepping forward like he was about to pounce on the medical staff.

The hospital staff hesitated, staring at Ghost for a moment—a second that was too long for Soap’s liking—before nodding and taking König to an O.R., clearly deciding not to waste time on arguing.

Soap wasn't sure how long it was after that. The only thing he did know was that at one point he was sitting in a hallway, twitching from waves of emotions, his hands smeared in König’s blood, and the next he was waking up to a nurse informing him that König had finally woken up.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"He fall asleep?” Roach asked, his voice a whisper, snapping Soap back to the present.

Soap swallowed and slightly cleared his throat before tearing his eyes away to look over at Roach. “Yeah,” he whispered back.

Gaz tore his eyes away from the screen to see that Roach and Soap were telling the truth; König was fast asleep. “I can’t believe he fell asleep,” he whispered.

“I can; this movie is boring, mate. The plot is so obvious,” Roach said.

“Wha—why are you acting like I was the only one who wanted to watch it? You picked th’ movie too,” Gaz shot back.

Roach shrugged. “That was really just to piss off Soap.”

“I knew it!” Soap whisper-shouted.

Roach rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I don’ wanna hear it. You hit me with an eraser, so you already got yer revenge.”

“I can’t believe you would deceive me like this,” Gaz pouted.

Roach smirked. “I don’ know why you’re surprised. I’ve said before tha your movie taste is shit.”

Gaz dramatically gasped. “Fine then. If 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 such a good judge of movies, you can pick the next one.”

“Alright.”

“Hey, wha bout me? I’m the one who was wronged ere’. I told you all I’d already seen this movie and was completely ignored!”

“Shush, the movies still playing,” Roach said, turning his attention back to the TV.

“Hey—”

“Quiet,” Gaz cut Soap off, having followed Roach’s lead and already turned back to the movie. “You don’ wanna wake König, do you?”

Soap glanced over at König. He was still sleeping soundly, completely at peace. Heck, he was the most peaceful Soap's seen since meeting the Austrian. Soap sighed in defeat. Gaz and Roach weren’t worth it.

The rest of the movie went quickly after that, and before Soap knew it, the credits were rolling on the screen. His arm had fallen asleep about seven minutes after König had rested his head on it; his hand was all pins and needles, and he couldn’t take it any longer.

He shifted his arm gently, pulling it back towards his body, and instantly felt bad as König startled awake and winced in pain at the sudden jerk reaction of his own body.

“Seife?” König questioned tiredly before his whole body shot up like he’d been electrocuted.

“𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦, I’m sorry, Soap,” König mumbled, his eyes wide and mortified, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You should have nudged me off. I would not have minded.”

“Don’ worry abou’ it, König. You were just tired.” Soap said, a small, reassuring smile on his face.

“Hey, wait a minute. König, what did you just call Soap?” Gaz asked amusedly from where he was watching Soap and König on the other couch.

König turned, blinking at Gaz. It was like Soap could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out what Gaz was talking about. His head actually 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘥 as he looked at the Britt.

“I…I’m not sure I know what you are referring to,” König said slowly, confusion evident in his tone.

“He’s talking abou’ tha one word you said. It was something like s-ai-f-uh,” Roach chimed in.

König’s eyes slightly widened in realization. "Oh, you mean 𝘴𝘦𝘪𝘧𝘦.”

“Yeah! That’s it. Wha’s it mean?” Gaz asked.

“It’s German for Soap,” König elaborated, then turned back to the Scotsman. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call—”

“Oh, hey, no! It’s fine, mate. I didn’t even notice until Gaz pointed it out,” Soap said, waving a hand in dismissal of König’s apology. Then, his lips tugged upwards in mischief as he suddenly decided to play with the other a little, solely for his own enjoyment and nothing else, because that’s just who he was. “You must have really been havin’ a good sleep if you reverted back to German, though. I didn’t realize I was tha comfortable.”

König felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment and suddenly stood up. “I— d-danke for inviting me to watch a movie with you, but I’m going to take a uh, shower now,” he said, and turned to Gaz and Roach, giving a small wave in goodbye.

"Wait, König, we’re gonna watch another movie if you wanna just wa—”

“Nein, I am good." König dismissed Soap and turned, quickly making his escape out of the rec room.

Soap sat there for a moment, staring disappointingly at the doorway the Austrian had just exited. He hadn’t thought König would just leave like that from a little bit of teasing, but there he went. Gone. Soap couldn’t help the feeling of guilt that settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Soap, you’re an absolute muppet, y'know tha?” Roach said, after a moment. “A complete blockhead.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hallway was silent, completely empty of any soldiers as Ghost made his way down, heavy footsteps echoing. He silently sighed to himself, feeling his fingers twitch at the need for a cigarette. The rookies had been even more annoying than usual today.

As he rounded the corner, his whole body came to a dead stop. His eyes instantly latched onto the unmistakable figure built like a giant down the hall.

He felt his body tense, making it a point not to move even an inch to keep his presence unknown as he observed König.

The Austrian was slowly shuffling down the hall, emitting uncharastically loud breaths, before he suddenly slumped his shoulder onto the wall beside him, resting his hand on his wounded stomach.

Ghost gritted his teeth as he continued to watch König fully turn his body until his back lay flat on the wall and his head leaned back as he took deep breaths.

For how severe König’s injuries could have been, he got off easy, but no matter how easy he got off, it was still clear his wounds had taken an inevitable toll on him. Ghost hadn't seen much of the Austrian, not since he was brought back to the base. He heard the whispers from soldiers around base and conversations from Soap, Gaz, and Roach about König, but until now he hadn’t actually 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 him.

It was strange, to say the least. Despite how socially inept König was, he had been everywhere Ghost went before their last mission—at the cafeteria, at the shooting range, around the rec room. Even when he wasn’t in the same room as Ghost, he somehow was always in his vicinity. But somehow, in the past couple of days, König had become a rumor. He was absolutely nowhere and yet everywhere at once.

He was a whisper in the air, constantly talked about but never seen, just like before he had arrived on base. It was almost like König had just been a figment of his imagination. And now here he was, barely standing in a hallway as he gasped to catch his breath and fought the pain searing through him.

“What are you doing ere’?” Ghost asked, finally speaking up.

König jumped, his head quickly turning to look at the skull-masked man standing a few feet away from him.

“Oh, Ghost. It is you.”

Ghost quirked an eyebrow, slightly tilting his head as he took a few steps towards the Austrian. “Tha a problem?”

“I—nein. I just—I wasn’t expecting to see you, is all.”

Ghost hummed, stopping three feet away from König. “You never answered my question.”

“What?” König questioned.

“What are you doing ere’?” Ghost repeated his prior question. “In a hallway, all alone, strugglin’ to stand.”

König’s shoulders tensed. He glanced to the side, contemplating something, then sighed as he looked back at Ghost. “I was just walking back to my room,” he muttered.

“Shouldn’t you be able to walk without exhausting yourself by now? The doctors would’ve wanted you walking around for the last couple o' days.” Ghost questioned, genuinely curious. He remembered hearing Gaz and Soap talking about how König would be moving around relatively soon after returning to the base and how that was a good thing.

König downcasted his eyes, shifting against the wall. He reminded Ghost of an ashamed puppy finally being scolded for doing something it shouldn’t have.

“You haven’t been following the doctor's instructions,” Ghost said, not as a question, but as a statement, an undeniable fact.

König didn’t say anything in response; the only thing indicating he heard Ghost was the way his hand tightened ever so slightly on his stomach.

“You’re an idiot,” Ghost stated, his voice having more bite than he was expecting it to. He didn’t know why the knowledge that König hadn't been doing proper rehab bothered him so much, but it did.

He hardly interacted with König, at least not in the way Soap and the others have, and yet it seemed he couldn’t escape the endless cycle of ambivalence that came with knowing the Austrian.

Any time he thought he had a grip on who König was or how he perceived him, the man would do something to shake off his grip and leave him stumbling to recapture his bearings.

It was frustrating.

Everything about the soldier was so counteractive that it was impossible to get a proper read on him. From the moment he stepped foot into Ghost’s proximity, the lieutenant had a bad feeling about him—some indescribable feeling that set off every defense mechanism and self-preservation alarm he had. But everyone else seemed oblivious to the danger König held, and the more Ghost tried to get them to see what he saw, the more König would toss him around, flip the switch, and leave him questioning what he knew about the man.

There were so many layers to König, it was hard to tell what was real and what was part of the mask he wore to shield himself from the outside world. It was an all-too-familiar concept; after all, he himself had a similar defense and brought on the same frustration in others who tried to get close to him.

But despite all the mixed feelings and all the frustration and weariness König brought, it seemed to only fuel the fire inside Ghost that had been growing since he laid eyes on the man.

It was like the tougher the challenge got, the more his desire grew. The thought of how satisfying the victory would be in the end when he finally managed to solve the very puzzle that was König made his skin buzz with anticipation.

Though he would admit that the 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘯 he seemed to be feeling was a bit worrying, but he's already gotten this far, and if there was one thing he did know, it was that he wasn't ready to give up just yet. Besides, Soap’s growing fondness for König was more than enough reason to continue his endeavor to learn as much as possible about König.

Ghost sighed. “C’mon,” he said, walking forward and looping an arm around König’s waist and slinging one of the Austrian’s arms over his shoulder. “I'll help you.”

“What—nein I can walk—”

“𝘚𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱. If you don't want to be coddled, then start doing what the damn doctor tells you to and get yourself back to full strength.”

König instantly relinquished all the fight he had in his body at Ghost’s harsh demand, accepting the man's help because, as much as he hated to admit it, the weight Ghost had forcefully taken from his own body was one of the biggest reliefs he had felt in a while. Not to mention that before the lieutenant had shown up, he had thought he wouldn't make it back to his room.

“Danke,” König mumbled, feeling his face flush in embarrassment.

Ghost grunted his acknowledgement before they set about the corridors, quite the duo. Ghost in his full gear—vest, holders, and gun—and König in his sniper hood and black sweatshirt with gray sweatpants barely able to walk.

König kept his eyes low, avoiding the stares they received as they made their way closer to the barracks and passed by soldiers. He felt exposed despite having his sniper hood. He wanted nothing more than to be away from those hungry eyes and hushed whispers. They were only a hallway down, and he was already ready to go hide away in some side room until everyone was inside their own quarters for the night.

Ghost could feel the eyes and how tense König was. He noticed the way the Austrian seemed to subconsciously curl in on himself as they walked and eyed the taller man for a moment before sighing and turning to the group of soldiers hovering in the hallway.

“Quit starin’ and get out of my bloody sight, 𝘯𝘰𝘸,” Ghost barked, eyes like daggers. The soldiers instantly tensed before quickly scurrying away down the hall.

“...You didn't have to do that,” König muttered.

“Their staring was gettin’ annoying,” Ghost answered, keeping his eyes trained ahead. König stared at Ghost for a moment before turning his gaze forward.

“Right…annoying…” König mumbled to himself.

They didn’t speak a single word after that; they just wandered down the halls together like twin wraiths.

It took König only a couple of minutes to realize Ghost was purposefully taking a longer route to get to the barracks, most likely trying to get him the exercise he needed to recover, and to Ghost's pleasure, he didn’t dare call the lieutenant out on it. In return, Ghost didn’t protest when König leaned further into him, utilizing his body for support.

Eventually, they made it to König’s door.

"Dankeschön, Ghost,” König said, moving to stand on his own. Once he was balanced, he unlocked his door and opened it, stepping inside. He expected to find Ghost already on his way down the hall when he turned around, but instead found him standing there, eyes roaming the interior of his room, cataloging every detail he could.

There wasn't much, Ghost noticed from a small glance, but the further he looked, the more he realized there actually wasn't 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 to show someone lived in the room he was observing besides the bed sheets being unmade. There weren't any personal items on display, not even a single framed photograph of some kind; it was completely barren, essentially unlived in. No different than how it was before König moved in.

König shifted slightly, the awkwardness of the situation starting to eat away at him. The movement brought Ghost’s eyes back to him, which only made him more uncomfortable.

“Is there something you need?” König asked.

“I expect to start seein’ you walkin’ around the base,” Ghost said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

König blinked. "...Yes, sir.”

Ghost nodded and turned to walk away, taking a few steps before stopping and slightly turning his body to face the Austrian.

“Oh, and König?”

“...Ja?”

“From now on, when your doctor instructs you to do somethin’, you do it. That's an order.”

Chapter Text

König woke to the sound of three abrupt knocks on his door, causing him to sigh. It was one of three people: Soap, Gaz, or Roach. He didn’t really want to socialize this morning; heck, he was expecting to be able to spend most of the day on his own. After all, he didn't have much to do other than the routine assigned by the doctors for his recovery. Well, that, and stock and clean the armory. It was the closest he got to doing anything military-related anymore.

He constantly wished he could do more, but despite his repeated requests to Price, stocking and cleaning the armory remained the only things the captain would allow him to do. Anytime he tried to argue or come up with something more productive like being allowed to return to doing his usual workouts and training drills—he already knew hoping to be cleared for field work was out of the question—Price would just shut everything he had to say down by saying some bullshit like: "until you're cleared by medical, I don't want to hear it" or "get cleared by medical and then we'll talk."

Another knock, this time gentler, rang through the room, snapping König out of his thoughts and back to the present. He let out a small puff of exasperated air, sprung up off his bed—wincing slightly from the pain—and quickly tugged his hood over his head.

“Coming!” He called out, voice gruff and pinched from lack of usage. Before he turned the doorknob, he hesitated for a second and took a deep breath, stealing his nerves.

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘹 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦, he told himself.

When König opened the door and found none other than Roach standing on the other side, completely alone; he couldn't help but be a bit surprised and a little guarded. The sergeant has stopped by a few times since he came back from the hospital to check in, but he’s never been alone before; he was usually always accompanied by Gaz or Soap and, on a rare occasion, both. It was pretty unsettling to see Roach by himself (as if there was some unforeseen tragedy about to strike and he was left completely defenseless.)

𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯, König quickly scolded himself, and offered Roach a small smile from behind the hood, his eyes crinkling being the only indication he was even attempting such an act.

“König,” Roach greeted, wearing a friendly smile. He leaned some of his weight on one leg as he tilted his head up to make eye contact with the Austrian. “You wanna grab some breakfast?”

𝘕𝘰.

“Guten Morgen, Roach,” König said after closing his door. “Ja, I would be happy to accompany you.”

“Tha’s good t’ here,” Roach said, beginning to walk. He motioned for König to follow him, and he did, trailing a little behind the sergeant. “M’ sure you've been going a bit stir crazy with Price keeping you on light duty an' all,” Roach glanced over his shoulder at König, a slightly crooked smirk on his face. “Am I right?”

König’s steps faltered for a moment as his shoulders tensed. His mouth opened behind the hood (words of denyment on the tip of his tongue) before he quietly sighed, allowing his shoulders to slump in defeat. “Ja, your assumption is correct,” he said, voice almost mumbling. His eyes lowered from the sergeant's gaze to study the changes in the floor with every step he took.

He could feel Roach’s eyes studying him for a moment before the sergeant hummed to himself and (graciously) turned his attention back to the hall ahead of them.

“It happens to the best o’ us—but don’t worry. You’ll be back on the field with us in no time, I’m sure of it,” Roach reassured, his voice a touch softer than it had been before but still filled with its usual relaxed and bright nature.

König merely nodded his head in agreement, finding himself unable to find the words to respond to that. Deep down he knew what Roach said was true, but that didn’t make him feel any less restless.

Everyday he craved to be able to shoot a gun outside of target practice again and feel the rush that came with dodging the enemies bullets, and everyday he was reminded by the pain coursing through him that he wasn’t going to be allowed such a courtesy anytime soon.

He hated not being able to show his worth. His whole reasoning for being here was to improve the relations between T.F. 141 and KorTac and yet the only thing he's managed to do is cause problems. He’s supposed to be one of the best soldiers KorTac has to offer. It's laughable how much he’s failed at living up to that.

“Y’know, you’re lucky today,” the Brit continued, disrupting König's thoughts.

“And why is that?” König asked.

“Because today, you’re goin' to be eatin’ sausage,” Roach answered. “Trust me, you don’ wanna eat the bacon or the hash browns ‘ere. Tastes like a load of tosh if you know wha’ I mean.”

No, he didn’t know, but he nodded anyway. “I see.”

Though Roach never took his eyes off the path in front of them, König could see the sergeant eye him with an unreadable expression on his face through his peripheral vision for a moment. For some unknown reason, it made his skin crawl.

“You're not much of a talker, are ya?” Roach said, breaking the brief silence.

König tensed slightly, feeling a familiar heat of embarrassment creep up the back of his neck. “I guess you could say that.”

Roach chuckled. “C’mon, I think we both know you're not a social butterfly, König.”

König opened his mouth, ready to argue or, more accurately, change the subject, but Roach seemed to pick up on that because before he could even get a word out, the Brit continued.

“Now don’t get me wrong; there's no need to be ashamed of tha. I mean, look at Ghost. He’s certainly no socialist, but we still love that big oaf anyway.”

König couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped him. To think anyone would ever call the man who could be compared to a reaper or two a big oaf seemed absurd, and yet, here Roach was saying it as casually as one would discuss the weather.

Roach let out a small laugh of his own before he said, “A’ight, we’re here” and pushed the doors open to the cafeteria.

Immediately, a stampede of noise bombarded König’s ears—voices and metal clangs of utensils assaulting his eardrums. He felt his heart begin to quicken, his breath strain, and his body slightly curl into itself as he tried to make himself seem smaller to keep unwanted eyes off of him.

Like a baby duck following it's mom, he followed the Sergeant to the tray line, keeping only a few feet behind and his eyes glued to the man's back. Whether Roch knew it or not, he'd become König’s anchor—an essential component in keeping himself from hypefixating on all the noise and movement happening around him.

They silently made their way through the line and grabbed their food before beginning to search for a place to sit. It wasn’t a very long search due to the sole fact that in less than a few seconds of searching, an all-too-familiar British accent rang out from the corner of the cafeteria, beckoning them over to a table.

“Roach, König, over ere!” Gaz shouted, waving an arm frantically in a calling motion.

Roach chuckled slightly under his breath at the sight of Gaz. “A’right we hear ya! Now quit waving your arm like tha you’re making yourself look crazy!”

"Says the guy who wears antennas on his head! What’re ya tryna do? Make people think you're an alien!?” Gaz shot back.

Although König couldn’t see it, he could feel the eyeroll Roach gave in response to Gaz’s antics as they quickened their pace to make it over to the Brit.

König followed Roach to the table Gaz very impatiently waited for them at, keeping his eyes trained ahead on the intersection where Roach’s shoulder blades met, mindlessly following the muscle movement made from each step the Brit took. Soldier's heads turned to look at him as he passed, whispers were uttered, and countless eyes were trained on him. A regular occurrence that König wished would go away.

He almost wanted to say something, to make up some excuse that Price asked him to do something he forgot about just to get away, but decided to keep quiet. He already came all this way, and it would be unfair to Roach if he just left now.

Once they reached their destination, Roach sat down on one side of the table next to Gaz, and König sat across from them. Immediately, the shorter of the two began talking.

“Took ya both long enough,” Gaz grumbled after swallowing a piece of hash brown.

“Oh shuddap. It wa only a coup o' seconds,” Roach said through a mouthful of eggs.

“Disgusting. At least swallow before opening yer mouth, ya big lug,” Gaz said, his nose scrunching up at the sight.

Roach raised an eyebrow before he smirked and opened his mouth, obnoxiously moving his tongue around to show off the remainder of his food.

König silently watched all of this with a small smile under his hood. He had to admit that it was pretty disgusting to have to see, but it was also amusing to watch the two Brits bicker. It was like his own little personal movie he could watch. Not to mention, it helped him by allowing him to not have to contribute to the conversation.

“Gross! C’mon, I’m trying to eat ere! König’s trying to eat!” Gaz complained.

“You mean yer trying to give yerself food poisoning,” Roach countered after swallowing the rest of his food. “Those hash browns are gonna have you shittin into next week.”

With a loud clang, Gaz threw his utensils down and pushed his plate to the middle of the table, away from himself. “Ok, that's it. I’m done. Thanks for making me lose my appetite.”

“You’re welcome.”

“That was sarcasm, you little shit.”

“I know dumbass.”

“Who’re you call-”

“Their bickerin annoying you yet, König?” A Scottish voice asked from behind the Austrian, interrupting the two Brits.

König turned to see an all-too-familiar mohawked sergeant standing behind him, a lopsided grin wide across the Scots face.

“Ah, not quite yet, but there's still time,” König joked, a rare sight that seemed to widen Soap's grin. “Are you planning on joining us, Soap?”

“It seems like you're in need of someone sane to talk to, so sure,” Soap said as he sat down in the seat next to König.

Gaz scoffed. "Oh, please, you're the craziest one ere outta all o’ us Mr. I love blowing shit up.”

“Hey, I’m a demolition expert! I’m supposed to blow shit up,” Soap said smugly with a grin.

“Mhm sureeee. I’ve seen the way you look at explosions. No sane person looks at an explosion the way you do.”

Soaps eyebrows furrowed as he frowned in confusion. “What’re ya on ‘bout? Wha look?”

“Y'know, the 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬.”

Soap blinked, his expression scrunching up into one that screamed ‘what are you talking about’.

“Oh for the love of— Y’know! That one people get in movies on their wedding day that makes it seem like they’ve never seen anything more beautiful or been more in love,” Gaz continued, trying to convey his meaning.

Soap scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I do not get tha look.”

“You do,” Roach cut in. “It's creepy.”

“Wha—no, I don’t!”

“You do too.”

“I— y'know wha? Fine. König,” Soap said, pointedly turning towards the Austrian. “I don’t get a lovesick look when looking at explosions, right?”

König, in all of his glory, only shrugged in response and raised a fork full of sausage to his mouth, diligently raising and lowering his hood enough to eat without showing much of his face. “I cannot say or deny that you do get that look. I’ve never seen you look at an explosion before.”

Soap's mouth fell open as he looked at König, a look of mock hurt and betrayal crossing over his features. It made König's skin crawl, bringing him back to a few weeks prior, when he was stuck in that hospital room. Where he'd screamed his lungs out, doing everything he could to hurt Soap, to get him to finally give up on him, to see who he really was wasn’t someone Soap should want to associate with, to—

A loud snort sounded from the other side of the table, drawing König’s attention back to the present. “Nice try, but König can’t help you this time,” Gaz snickered.

Soap grumbled something that suspiciously sounded like him cursing Gaz under his breath and slouched down in his chair.

Roach chuckled slightly, shaking his head. “Just admit it, you're the most chaotic one ere.”

“What about Gaz, hm? He's literally dangled out o’ a helicopter before!” Soap said, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“That was 𝘯𝘰𝘵 by choice,” Gaz quickly argued. “I thought I was gonna be nothin' but a bloody scrape of flesh on the pavement for a hot min there,” he continued with a visible shudder running through his body.

“I think we all thought tha,” Roach unhelpfully added with a shit-eating grin.

“Oh, shut up,” Gaz grumbled.

“What? I'm just saying!”

“You weren't even there!”

“So?”

“So—"

König watched as Roach and Gaz fell back into their earlier bickering. He found it amusing for a while, but eventually found his gaze wandering over towards Soap, who had fallen silent; his eyes squinted as they scanned the room like they were looking for someone. König looked over his shoulder, but no one, besides a few recruits, had come in since he joined them.

“Hey, has L.T. come through ere at all?” Soap asked after a moment.

Gaz and Roach stopped their bickering, taking a quick look around. “Uh, I don't think I've seen him yet; why?” Roach asked.

“I was gon’ run by him some training drills I thought o’ for the new recruits. Figured I'd ask if he snuck down ere at all.”

“What training drills do you have-”

“Shit, is tha the time?” Gaz asked, interrupting Roach.

“hm? Oh, uh, yeah? That is wha the clock says after all,” Roach answered, glancing over to where Gaz was staring at the clock mounted on the wall. “Why? You forget how to read the clock or something?” he teased.

"Shut up. Of course I didn't forget how to read the clock,” Gaz said, lightly glaring at Roach. “I was just surprised König was still ere is all.”

“Why is that?” König asked, slightly tilting his head.

“Well, don't you have a visit with medical scheduled in seven minutes?”

Immediately, an icy sensation flooded through König’s veins as he quickly turned to look at the clock.

“Scheiße,” he muttered.

Gaz was right.

Now it was all coming back to him. He’d been scheduled to go in today to get his stitches taken out. How the hell could he have forgotten that? The infirmary was all the way on the other side of the base. There was no way he could make it in time, even if he were to try and run.

“Hey, you alrigh’ there, König?” Soap asked, eyes cast down, looking at König's hands with a questionable look. König hadn’t realized he had begun clutching the fork in his hand with such a bruising force, whitening his knuckles as a result.

He quickly dropped the fork on his tray and straightened in his chair. “Ah, yes. I am fine.”

Soap stared at König for a moment, seeming to study him. “Hey, if you leave now, you can still make it there. I’m sure they won't be too fussy over you being a few minutes late.”

König took a deep breath, his hand tightening unconsciously into a ball on the table. 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱’𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘭, he silently scolded himself. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

”König.”

He nearly jolted. “Ja?”

“You ready t’ go, big guy?” Soap asked, stacking his plate on his tray and standing up.

”What?”

“To your appointment,” Soap clarified. “If we leave now, you can still make it.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Soap said, raising a hand to silence him. “You don't have time to be all polite an’ shite. I'm coming with you. End of discussion.”

Roach snorted, drawing Soap's attention towards him. “Wow. That's very nice of you to just invite yourself along.”

“I'm sure König doesn't mind, right, big guy?” Soap asked, turning back to face the Austrian.

“Oh, uh, Ja,” the König said, and began to stack his own plate. “It's fine.”

Soap grinned. “Good. Now let's get you to tha appointment.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

König waited in the small, makeshift room he was placed in, Soap standing outside the curtains forming the walls of his "room”. Thankfully, it seemed like no one cared he was a few minutes late, just as Soap said.

He glanced around, taking in the bright lights and the unnecessary amount of white surrounding him.

Gott, he hated the infirmary. The metallic, sterile environment always made him antsy, no matter what base he was in.

He sighed and leaned back, his leg slightly bouncing. According to his last visit, he was healing fast but was still prohibited from doing any strenuous activity. Maybe now that he's getting his stitches out, he'll be cleared to go to the gym. As much as he hated the thought of everyone's eyes on him, he hated the thought of being stuck in his room even more.

“König?” A female voice called. König glanced up to see the curtains slightly pulled back and a woman standing in front of him with a file in her hand. “You’re König, correct?” She asked, stepping into the room and shutting the curtains behind her.

König quickly straightened. “Ja, that's me.”

“Alright then, let's see… It says here that you're getting your stitches taken out today. I'm sure you're excited for that, yeah?”

König nodded and bit his tongue, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. This was another thing he hated about infirmaries. The unnecessary small talk. He was here to get his stitches taken out. Not discuss the weather or whatever other bullshit that the medical professionals decided to chat about.

“Have you been keeping up with the doctor's routine? Getting plenty of exercise?”

“Ja.”

“That's good to hear. You don't want to slack off with that, y'know. Now, let's get started, shall we?” She said and pulled on her gloves while taking a seat in front of him, dragging a small tray with some supplies with her. “I'm going to need you to lift your shirt up so I can have access to your stitches, please.”

König nodded his understanding and quickly complied, not wanting to draw this visit out any longer than necessary. His gaze fixed on her movements as she prepared her instruments, the sterile scissors and tweezers glinting under the bright lights.

“First, I'm going to numb the area,” she explained. “It may sting a little.”

König nodded and braced himself as the needle pierced his flesh. A sharp pain shot through his abdomen, making him grit his teeth and flinch involuntarily. But it subsided quickly, leaving behind nothing but a dull ache.

The medic waited a few seconds before touching the area and having him confirm it was numb. Then she picked up her scissors and carefully snipped the first stitch. König felt a strange yet familiar sensation quickly follow the act—a combination of pressure and relief that came when he had stitches removed.

The cut edges of his skin parted slightly, but the feeling wasn't very painful. The sensation was akin to peeling away a tightly adhered bandage. It was a mix of itchiness and a newfound lightness. The stitches had been irritating his wound, making it sensitive and sore, but now that they were being taken out, he was finally being freed of the oversensitivity. It was almost like his body was finally reclaiming the space that had been occupied by the sutures.

The wound itself was healing well. The edges were closing together, and the swelling had subsided significantly. König could see a faint scar forming, but it was already pale and would likely fade with time. And even if it didn't, it would just be another one to add to the list—another one to eventually be forgotten about over time.

As the medic removed the last stitch, König felt a wave of relief wash over him, the pain and discomfort of the past few weeks seeming like distant memories. His abdomen felt free and mobile again, as if it had never been injured.

“All done,” the medic announced. “Your wound looks great. Just keep it clean and dry, and you should be good to go. And before you ask, I’d say that from the looks of things, you can start returning to your regular routine. Just take it easy and don't do anything too strenuous. With any luck, you'll be cleared for missions soon.”

König lowered his shirt and nodded before he quickly thanked the medic and stood to leave.

“𝘚𝘰𝘰𝘯” she had said. Somehow he already knew that was going to feel like a lifetime. Although he supposed he should look on the bright side, at least he could finally start getting back into shape. He could already tell he'd lost some muscle from being held up in the hospital and restricted at the base.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

𝗚𝗮𝘇
Soooooo
7:15

𝗚𝗮𝘇
How's the appointment going?
7:15

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
They made me wait outside :(
7:15

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
but from what I can hear it's going good
7:15

𝗚𝗮𝘇
:0
7:15

𝗚𝗮𝘇
Eavesdropping are we MacTavish?
7:15

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
-_-
7:15

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
Shut up
7:15

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
It's a thin white curtain between me and them
7:16

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
Kinda hard not to hear what's being said
7:16

𝗚𝗮𝘇
Mhm whatever you say
7:16

𝗚𝗮𝘇
Also quit doing that
7:16

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
Doing what?
7:16

𝗚𝗮𝘇
Typing everything in seven different messages when you only need to use one
7:16

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
There's nothing wrong with how I type
7:16

𝗚𝗮𝘇
There is. I have to wait centuries before I can even begin typing a response
7:16

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
I’m going to smack you
7:16

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
There
7:16

𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽
I put everything essential in one text
7:16

𝗚𝗮𝘇
>:(
7:16

𝗚𝗮𝘇
Rude
7:16

Soap chuckled and began to type a response, but the sound of a curtain being drawn back followed by heavy footsteps made him stop to glance up. Immediately, he was greeted with the sight of König standing in front of him.

König, who was bending his knees and seemed to slink in on himself to make himself appear smaller, and yet still had everyone in the infirmary staring at him despite his best efforts. That always seemed to be a problem with König; he was so huge that he drew attention wherever he went.

“So,” Soap drawled. “How'd it go?” he asked, grinning. He quickly pocketed his phone as he began to lead König out of the infirmary, trying to walk as close to the Austrian as possible to somewhat shield him from unwanted eyes.

“I've been cleared to return to my usual routine, but I have to keep it light for the first few days,” König grumbled, keeping his eyes downcast as they walked, no doubt trying to avoid the stares following them.

Soap snorted. “And why do ya sound like tha's a bad thing?”

“...I would rather hear I'm cleared for active duty.”

At that, Soap couldn't supress the laugh that escaped him. "Christ, mate, you sound just like L.T. I swear it's like you two don't know how to do anything other than work yourselves to an early grave.”

“You're not one to talk, Johnny.”

“L.T.!” Soap squaked, quickly spinning around to face the giant looming behind him. “Bloody hell, I need t’ put a bell on ya or somethin. I swear, one o’ these days you're gonna give me a heart attack.”

“You just need to become more self-aware,” Ghost countered, adding a small, almost nonexistent, playful edge to his tone. Soap soffed in mock offense. He was about to counter Ghost's comeback but stopped himself when he noticed the Brits gaze had shifted onto König.

Soap glanced between the two, studying both men. Ghost didn't seem to be on the offensive from what he could tell, nor out to purposefully intimidate. Not that it mattered much. No matter what the lieutenant did, he'd always come across as intimidating.

Which, in Soap's very humble and non-biased opinion, was complete horse shit. The big lug was really just a softie deep down. It was only thanks to Ghost's constant need to be Mr. Dark and broody on campus that no one ever believed him; he swore Ghost only does it now just to make him seem crazy. But, getting back on track, the point was that, from the looks of things, it seemed Ghost was only observing König, a nice change of pace if he said so himself.

König, on the other hand….

Well he….

Uh…

To put it simply, it looked like his soul had left his body. His posture had immediately gone stiffer than a board, and Soap had no doubt that if König were a cartoon character, his eyes would be popping out from underneath his hood.

𝘎𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭, Soap thought, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

The Scot stared at the two masked men for a little while longer before inwardly sighing. He opened his mouth, ready to break the silence, when Ghost unexpectedly spoke up.

“Your stitches have been removed?” Ghost asked, his voice back to its usual low bass rumble.

That seemed to snap König out of his initial shock, his body tensing before slightly relaxing as he blinked. “Oh, ja. They were scheduled to be taken out today.”

Ghost hummed his acknowledgement, his eyes raking over the Austrian’s body. He seemed healthier, from what Ghost could tell. He certainly could walk on his own now.

Admittedly, he'd been following König’s health more closely after running into him in the hallway, but seeing it in person somehow made it more real. And for some reason, that seemed to lighten a weight that had been following him around for the past couple of weeks.

Although…

“You should eat more,” Ghost spoke suddenly, startling the Austrian standing before him.

“I—What?”

“You've lost some muscle,” Ghost elborated, voicing his earlier observation. König certainly seemed healthier, but Ghost had also noticed the Austrian seemed slimmer than before. Most notably in his shoulders. That knowledge…unsettled him for whatever reason.

König shifted uncomfortably, his left hand beginning to fiddle with the zipper of his pants pocket. He hated how eerily good at reading people Ghost was. It was always useless to try to hide anything from him which was both an asset for when on the field and an annoyance while off of it.

“Oh, c'mon, L.T. lay off him. König's been stuck on light duty for the past couple o’ weeks. It's expected that he'd lose some muscle,” Soap defended, making his presence re-known.

Ghost glanced over at Soap, eyes studying him for all of two seconds before shifting back towards the Austrian. “Fair point,” he acknowledged, eyes never once leaving König. “Which is why I'll be expecting to see him regain the muscle he's lost now that he has no excuses,” Ghost continued.

Then, in an instant, his gaze, along with his tone, sharpened, the atmosphere growing more tense. “If he doesn't, then it won't matter if Price clears him. No soldier at anything less than a hundred percent goes out on the field with my team.”

“Wait, hold on L.T. tha's not fair—hey! Where are ya going!? You can't just say tha and walk away!” Soap shouted, his disagreement falling on deaf ears. “For christ sake—”

“It's alright Soap, please calm down,” König said, placing a hand on the angry Scotts shoulder reassuringly, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. It wasn't like he hadn't already planned to regain the muscle anyway.

Besides, he understood where Ghost was coming from. If it were him, he wouldn't want a soldier who was less than a hundred percent out on the field with him either. Especially not one who’s already compromised the team once before by doing exactly that.

There was also the fact Ghost’s basically had it out for him since the moment he stepped foot on Ft. 141’s base. It made sense that he wouldn't let up on him now.

For a split second, he was ashamed to say that he'd thought that maybe, just maybe, Ghost had finally warmed up to him, but now it was obvious nothing had changed. It seemed their small truce had expired, and it was back to how it always has been: Ghost gunning for him any chance he got.

Soap sighed. "No, it's not, mate. I'm really sorry bout him.”

“There's no need to apologize, Soap.”

Soap turned slightly, causing König to quickly retract his hand in fear of upsetting the sergeant or making things awkward. Soap didn’t seem to give the action much thought, instead more focused on studying König, seemingly debating on something. It was only a moment or two that he stood there assessing him, but to König it felt like an eternity.

”How do you do tha?" he finally asked.

König blinked, furrowing his brows in confusion. "Do what?"

"Be so forgiving."

"Oh," König said, for lack of better words. He hadn't really thought of himself as a forgiving person. If anything, he was more of a brush-it-off type of person in the perception of the eyes around him. It made it easier for him to avoid drawing attention to himself that way. It didn't matter if he really held on to every word someone said to him or not; all he really needed to do was follow orders at the end of the day. The fewer attachments, the better.

"I don't know," he finally said after a moment. "I just…understand wanting to make sure no one on your team is leaving in a body bag I suppose.”

Soap hummed as he observed him for a few moments longer.

Then, after a couple of seconds, he smiled, his eyes wrinkling at the edges. “I guess you would, wouldn’t ya.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The stale smell of old popcorn and burnt coffee hung in the air, a familiar scent in the rec room. König sat alone, hunched over a faded, dog-eared copy of 'The Art of War,' his brow furrowed in concentration.

He’d come to the rec room about fifteen minutes ago to wind down after completing his first workout since being injured. It was more grueling than he would’ve liked to admit—something he always knew happened after major injury and yet always expected to be different. Sadly, the world didn't work that way.

His eyes danced across page after page, a comforting action that put König at ease and served as a good distraction for his mind. Reading had always been a good relaxer for him after all. Something he could do no matter what base he was sent to and required no socialization. A true sanctuary.

As time passed, König found himself completely lost in the book; in fact, he was so engrossed that he almost didn't realize there was another presence in the rec room with him.

Almost.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flicker of movement near the doorway. All the tension that had left his body quickly returned as he glanced over, being greeted by the sight of Ghost entering the room. He hadn't been expecting company; most people being back in their rooms at such a late hour, and he especially hadn’t been prepared for this one.

He quietly watched as Ghost shuffled into the room and made his way over to the bookshelf, the quiet creak of his boots the only sound that disturbed the stillness.

König didn’t dare make a move or sound as he observed, not wanting to disrupt the fragile atmosphere surrounding them. Ghost may not have seemed like he was bothered, he didn’t even acknowledge König after all, but the Austrian knew Ghost knew of his presence, and that alone was enough to disturb the lieutenant.

Maybe if he was lucky, Ghost would quickly find whatever book he came for and leave. Not that it mattered. He would leave no matter what; after all, there was no way the Brit would stay here to read, not with König still being present. So it really came down to how long it would take for him to find whatever book he wanted.

Unless he wanted the book König had.

That thought alone made König inwardly groan in annoyance. He majorly contemplated just setting down the book he was reading and leaving right then and there, but ultimately decided against it. He was still pretty exhausted after his workout and had been there first. He may not like causing problems, but he wouldn’t result to cowering every time he saw Ghost, even if that did lead to more bad blood between them. All though, he doubted that mattered. It’s become pretty clear the bad blood that already existed would never dissipate; therefore, he’d never really be on Ghost’s good side no matter what he did. That said, it still didn’t hurt to try and avoid adding some more.

König didn’t notice him move, not until the weight shifting on the armchair beside him caused the worn leather of said chair to squeak. Konig quickly glanced towards the noise, startled, to see Ghost settling into the armchair beside him. He held a book in his hand, his eyes cast intently upon the pages as if he weren’t sitting next to 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨 of all people.

The Austrian eyed Ghost for a moment before he turned his gaze back to his book. He didn’t dare move after that, let alone voice his surprise. He figured it was best not give Ghost any reason to acknowledge him. König's book, despite having the man staring directly at it, was long forgotten in favor of all his focus being drawn to the presence beside him.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨? König silently questioned. Ghost usually kept his distance, maintaining an air of intimidation that seemed to repel most others. Yet, tonight here he was sitting next to him like he wasn’t number one on Ghost’s shit list. It was more than strange.

Minutes turned into an eternity as König struggled to understand Ghost's presence. The silence between them seemed to last for centuries, only being broken by the occasional turning of pages from Ghost.

Finally, König couldn't bear the silence any longer. “Why are you here, Ghost?” he asked, his voice surprisingly steady despite the inner turmoil he was facing.

Ghost turned to face him, his gaze as cold as ever as he made eye contact with König. “To read,” he replied flatly. “Is tha a problem?”

“Nein,” König said quickly. Then, because he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut, added, “I just didn’t think…—𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦—...that you were much of a reader is all.”

Ghost didn’t say anything to that for a moment; instead, he studied König, seemingly looking for something, before he turned back to his book, replying, “Well, there's plenty you don’t know about me.”

König hummed his acknowledgement, not knowing what to say to that and not wanting to press his luck by asking any more questions, before turning back to face his own book.

He didn’t know how much more time passed as he sat there, hunched over his book, the pages barely registering as his mind kept drifting to the masked man beside him, constantly trying to figure out 𝘸𝘩𝘺 he was there, but more time than he thought must’ve passed, because soon enough he heard Ghost close the cover of his book and stand.

König watched through the corner of his eye as Ghost stood and returned his book to the shelf. He didn’t say anything as Ghost made his way towards the doorway, intent on leaving, and he didn’t relax until he was certain he couldn’t hear Ghost’s footsteps anymore.

König didn’t stay in the rec room for very long after that. There was no point. He tried to read, hoping now that Ghost was gone he could actually concentrate, but that quickly proved pointless. He then tried to figure out a reason as to why Ghost had willingly stayed with him around, but that proved to be just as pointless. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Ghost had stayed.

There wasn’t anything he could do but chop it up to a flook, a one-time thing to never be repeated, and call it a night. There was no chance it would happen again anyway.

He was wrong.

So, so wrong.

At this point he should really just give up on trying because it seemed it didn’t matter what he thought—not when the universe was always out to spite him.

König had waited a day before going back to the rec room to be safe, even went a little later than the last time, but he still ended up running back into Ghost.

The second time played out much like the first. König came to the rec room, no other soldiers in sight; he grabbed his book, sat down, began reading, and then a few minutes later Ghost appeared. He didn’t say anything just like last time, instead choosing to make his way to the shelf and select a book before sitting down in the armchair opposite to the Austrian once again.

They sat in silence just like before and both left relatively at the same time, neither ever uttering a word.

It was strange, to say the least. He’d never run into the lieutenant at the rec room before (not that he went there often; he really only started coming there frequently after being put on light duty), but now there he was, showing up like it was normal. Not that Ghost wasn’t allowed to come to the rec room. It wasn’t like König owned it after all; it was just…odd.

At first, König thought maybe it was a coincidence. Perhaps Ghost had tried to avoid him as well by showing up later in the day, and König had simply ruined his plan by showing up later too. So the next day he decided to go at his usual time. It seemed to work; for about a half hour he was left to his own solitude as he read, but then Ghost appeared again. Only this time, instead of coming to read, he seemed to have come to get a coffee and do paperwork at the rec room table.

Once again, they never spoke a word to one another; the only thing that broke the silence was the sound of the coffee machine and the rustle of papers. Ghost stayed for about an hour, then he left. König waited a few minutes, tried to relax again, failed, then left as well.

Things seemed to repeat like that for almost a full two weeks. It was like a dance. König would lead by arriving first, he’d get a good half hour, maybe an hour to read, then Ghost would appear. Sometimes it was to do work, other times it was to read, and on a rare occasion he’d watch TV.

Ghost was always first to leave, and König was always quick to follow, never being able to fully relax after the Lieutenant's visit; his mind too distracted by trying to find a reason as to 𝘸𝘩𝘺 Ghost was there in the first place.

He tried to rationalize it, but the closest thing he could come up with that seemed remotely close to plausible was that the lieutenant had always come to the rec room before König arrived at base and had been avoiding the area to keep away from König on the rare occasion he showed up, but then König began showing up regularly after being put on light duty, and he ultimately got tired of avoiding the rec room just because the Austrian was there. But even that reasoning still didn’t seem quite 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

König thought about just going to the rec room, grabbing his book, and heading back to his room to avoid interruption quite a few times, but every time he went there, he couldn’t help but be curious if Ghost would arrive and inevitably would stay.

A total of eleven days this went on before Ghost stopped showing up. König, surprisingly, was disappointed. He didn’t dwell on it for very long though—didn’t allow himself to.

It wasn’t like it took a genius to figure out the lieutenant's sudden disappearance. It was most likely Ghost got tired of putting up with his presence and decided to go back to avoiding the rec room. That was fine. It meant he could read in peace now anyway. There was no reason to be disappointed every time Ghost didn’t show up.

It was the fourth day since he last saw Ghost, he’d just finished up a late workout and was very grateful for how close the rec room was to the gym, fully prepared to spend the next couple of hours just relaxing with nothing but a book and his own company, when he finally saw him again.

The lieutenant sat at a table, his own massive frame hunched over a worn chessboard, as he seemed to contemplate his next move against…himself.

König froze in the doorway when he saw Ghost, unsure of what he was supposed to do. He glanced around, but no one else was there besides the lieutenant. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall.

He considered leaving, the option sounding very appealing; after all, he just wanted to relax, and dealing with the fragile atmosphere that came with Ghost’s visits was anything but that, but, against his better judgment, his curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to stay and watch.

It was ten minutes later of watching the shorter man use countless strategies against himself, each more impressive than the last, when Ghost finally finished his match and acknowledged König’s presence, his gaze flickering towards the Austrian.

“Something wrong?” Ghost asked, his voice a gruff rumble that seemed at odds with the quiet atmosphere.

König tensed, his body caught between the act of moving to leave and staying frozen on the spot. He hadn’t really thought about what he’d do once Ghost had finished his chess match nor thought of a good excuse as to why he just stood and watched. Honestly, he didn’t even really know why he stayed. Maybe it was because this was new—seeing parts of Ghost with his own eyes instead of hearing about them from others. Maybe it was because deep down he was curious to see how far he could push whatever 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 was. Or maybe… it was also because he had missed these interactions, even if only a little bit.

“Nein, nothing is wrong,” he replied after a moment. Ghost raised his brow in a silent question, but König pretended to not notice the inquiry as he quickly made his way to the book shelf.

The silence stretched again, filled with the unspoken question of why Ghost was there, why they were sharing this moment. It felt almost... intimate, a feeling König had never associated with Ghost.

The tap of a chess piece on the board quickly shifted his attention back to the masked man. “You play?” Ghost asked, eyes focused on the board as he reset the pieces, seemingly uncaring of what König was doing. That only served to confuse the Austrian even more. What would happen if he said yes? Would Ghost really invite him to play? What if he said no? Would whatever… 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 was be permanently broken and Ghost would never come back again? Or would—

No.

This wasn’t getting him anywhere.

He could ask himself what if’s all day, but in the end he knew there was only one way to find out what would happen, so after a moment of contemplation, König said, “Ja.”

Ghost refocused his attention back on him. “You up for a quick match?”

König hesitated for a second, took a deep breath, then nodded, making his way over to the table and sitting opposite to Ghost.

𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦, König silently observed, eyes focused on the board. It wasn’t much of a shock to see the Brit would have him make the first move.

He glanced up at Ghost, took a moment to think about his next move, and then reached for his e-column white pawn, moving it forward two spaces.

Ghost hummed, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, no doubt recognizing what play he just made, then, with a silent gesture, reached for the black pawn, and set it down, moving it forward two squares. It was a classic opening, one König recognized instantly as the Sicilian Defense. An opening of bold intentions, seeking to counterbalance the King’s Pawn opening, König himself had carefully laid out. He would expect nothing less. It was Ghost he was dealing with after all. The Brit wasn’t just your average soldier; he was a master of strategy—he understood that every piece on the board resonated with potential as the outcome of a mission did in the field.

König regarded the board with an intense, scrutinizing gaze as he considered what should be his next move. Then, with a deliberate motion, he moved his knight into position, spacing out his pieces with a skilled ease that infused the game with a palpable tension. The knight, known for its ability to leap over obstacles, mirrored König’s own approach to challenges—unorthodox yet precise.

“Your move, Ghost,” König said, his voice steady and devoid of any hint of urgency. He was calm, none of his usual nervous energy anywhere to be seen, instead replaced by a feeling of contentment, all his focus on the board in front of him, knowing that the slightest slip up or the tiniest stray thought could be the end of this game.

Ghost had always been one to think several steps ahead. The pieces on the board weren’t just wood and paint; they represented strategies he’d executed on countless missions. He recognized the knight’s potential and, after a moment’s contemplation, countered by advancing another pawn, creating a strong framework to support his future moves.

König’s lips twitched into a slight smile under his hood as he made his next move—another pawn, this time to secure space and strengthen his e5 square.

The game unfolded like a carefully scripted operation after that, with each movement deliberate and calculated. Ghost’s fondness for psychological warfare emerged as he allowed silence to permeate the room, disrupted only by the subtle clattering of pieces being shifted.

Under normal circumstances, that most likely would’ve worked against his opponent, but König wasn’t just any other adversary. He’s been on the receiving end of Ghost’s glares and silent treatment since day one. It would take a lot more than that to break him. Besides, he was one of KorTac’s best soldiers for a reason. A little silence wasn’t going to break him, not when it really mattered.

As the match progressed, the tension ebbed and flowed. Ghost played aggressively, employing a series of sharp tactics that signaled his intent to dominate the center of the board. He launched an attack on König’s knight, presenting an uncharacteristic sacrifice—a bishop offered as bait to divert attention.

König’s eyes flickered with intrigue; he knew a trap when he saw one. He paused, arched an eyebrow, and deliberated. He smiled, then made a conservative move, repositioning his rook, solidifying his defense.

Ghost’s lips twitched into a smirk under the mask, and then suddenly, he moved his queen forward, eyeing König’s position with deadly intent. The tension built as Ghost allowed the queen to rest uneasily close to where the Austrians king lay.

König weighed his options carefully, knowing whatever decision he made would make or break this match, and made his move. He looked up from the board, locking eyes with Ghost. “Your move, Ghost.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the gravel path leading to the shooting range. Each crackle of gravel underfoot echoed through the serene environment, interrupted only by the distant patter of gunfire.

König knelt at his designated spot on the range as he focused through his scope, eyes narrowed, and found his first target: a silhouette molded against the backdrop of rusted barrels. He exhaled slowly, shifted his positioning, squeezed the trigger, and watched as the bullet soared through the air… and hit the far left of his target.

A subtle sigh escaped him, mixing with the crisp morning air as he adjusted his aim once more and tried again. The result was the same—the bullet tore through the air, but his main target remained unscathed. Just like it always did.

König let out another sigh, this time a bit more profound. He was a good soldier, no denying that, but he’s always been a person of action, a juggernaut on the battlefield. He thrived in chaos, his presence a whirlwind of strength and brutality. However, the same kinetic energy that propelled him through the field was a double-edged sword at the back end of a sniper rifle.

No matter how hard he tried, he always found himself struggling to keep his body still. It was why he was designated an insertion specialist, designed to serve as a battering ram charging through doors in contested environments, instead of being allowed to become a recon sniper. Something he was jealous of Ghost for.

Speaking of Ghost, he was the whole reason König was even at the range. He’d learned earlier from a conversation with Gaz and Roach that one of Ghost’s specialties was being a recon sniper, and regretfully that sparked a small flame of jealousy inside König, motivating him to try practicing his sniping again.

After all, the main reason he even gave up on trying to become a sniper was because of his size; having been told his physical size made him an unsuitable candidate. But with Ghost and him sharing similar physiques, it caused a sudden need to prove himself able to accomplish what everyone told him was pretty much impossible all that much more.

Still, determination alone was not enough to actually accomplish his goal. He’d forgotten just how frustrating it was to maintain still when preparing to shoot. Each time he took a breath, the barrel of the rifle seemed to twitch, disrupting his aim and throwing him off every single time.

The gentle sway of the crosshairs over the target seemed to mock him; each adjustment felt like a battle against the very essence of his nature.

He breathed in deeply, trying to center himself. “Ruhig, konzentrier dich,”^[14] he muttered under his breath. But as he squeezed the trigger, the rifle recoiled sharply, and he watched in frustration as his shot veered right, far from the target’s center. His grip tightened, his frustration growing as he stared at the bullet markings dented on the target.

“Not quite your usual precision, is it?” came a voice, low and raspy that carried effortlessly across the range.

König, initially startled, swung his head towards the sound, seeing a familiar figure making its way over to him—Ghost, clad in his signature skull mask and tactical gear. His presence imposed with an air of calm confidence, a stark contrast to König’s tumultuous energy.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮? 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘢𝘮? König, whose expression had been one of surprise which quickly morphed into irritation, thought.

“You think you can do better?” He shot back, a hint of challenge in his tone.

Ghost raised an eyebrow—no doubt surprised by König snapping back at him—and stepped closer, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask. His posture remained relaxed but predatory, like a wolf assessing a wayward pup. “It’s not about doing better. It’s about finding your rhythm. You’re rushing your shots. Take a moment,” he said, positioning himself beside König, mirroring his stance.

“Just breathe.” He demonstrated the technique—slow and measured, in through the nose and out through the mouth. “Find your center. Don’t simply aim; align yourself with the shot.”

König followed his lead, positioning himself until he was practically identical to Ghost, then with renewed focus, he took aim once again, letting Ghost's words replay in his mind, ignoring the eyes boring into him. He shifted, took a deep breath, and in one firm pull of the trigger sent another bullet flying. He watched as it got closer and closer to the target and—

Missed.

Again.

𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦.

“You’re moving too much. It’s not just bout pullin’ the trigger; you ave’ to control everything else as well,” Ghost said, standing up and making his way closer to the frustrated Austrian.

König eyed Ghost confusedly as he came closer, body stiffening. He didn’t know what to expect from Ghost, but he certainly hadn’t expected him to position himself a few paces behind him. It seemed that was a re-occurring theme lately; König not understanding Ghost’s actions or motives.

Intrigued yet skeptical of Ghost’s intentions, König relaxed after a moment, ready to absorb any knowledge Ghost was willing to impart. He wasn’t sure why Ghost was bothering to help him, but he certainly wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. This would just be another new thing to add to the ‘weird things Ghost has done lately’ pile he then could dwell on for the next few days…or weeks.

With a practiced ease, Ghost leaned over König’s shoulder, causing the Austrians breath to hitch at the unexpected proximity, body resisting to tense up, and pointed at the crosshairs. “Start with your breathin’. Inhale slowly… hold… and release. You need to try and be a statue, or at least as close to one as you can get. Eliminate any unnecessary movement.”

König took a moment to regain his composure and contemplate Ghost’s instructions before he nodded, albeit grudgingly. He took a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs as he grasped the rifle firmly. He twitched, his leg repositioning itself, and aimed. He was about to pull the trigger when a hand repositioning his arm made him freeze.

"You moved," Ghost informed. "Try again."

König grumbled softly under his breath—not missing the almost non-existent chuckle Ghost made as he did—and realxed his body once again. He took a deep breath, aimed, slightly shifted his weight to the left, and pulled the trigger. The bullet soared through the air, but just like the ones before it, missed.

König wanted to scream.

"Again," Ghost commanded.

König bit his tongue. As much as he wanted to argue—ask if there really was any point to this or if Ghost was just messing with him—he knew taking his frustrations out on Ghost wouldn't help him. So instead, he breathed in deep and repositioned again. This time as König aimed, focusing intently on the target downrange, he felt Ghost lean in closer, his senses being overcome by the smell of gunpowder and steel, kohl, and a small underlying hint of cheap cologne that strangely relaxed him, before Ghost spoke, his voice steady and clear, flowing like a current of focus into König's mind.

“Visualize where you want the round to hit. Feel the weight of the moment. It’s not just about the mechanics; it’s about connection. Let everything else disappear.”

König followed Ghost’s instructions, inhaling deeply again, holding it for a second longer, and releasing slowly as he gently squeezed the trigger. Not once feeling the itch to break his positioning.

The rifle barked, and to his surprise, the bullet found its mark 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳. The target quivered from the impact, and König felt a jolt of triumph surge through him.

𝘏𝘢𝘩, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘦𝘳.

He turned to gauge Ghost’s reaction, curious on what his input could be, but quickly stopped as he realized the Brit was nowhere to be found. Just like always, Ghost disappeared just as quickly as he appeared, leaving no time for questions or anything else of the sort.

It looks like König wouldn’t be getting any answers from Ghost today, not that he would ever ask. With a resigned sigh König was about to turn around and resume his shooting when he noticed a note laying next to him.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦.

Chapter Text

-ՏI᙭ ᗪᗩYՏ ᑭᖇIOᖇ TO Tᕼᗴ ᑎOTᗴ-

“So,” Soap started, plopping himself down next to 141’s signature brooding man. He ran the towel he was holding through his hair, a few beads of water dripping down the back of his neck as a result. It was a welcomed outcome though, unlike earlier, where he had sweat instead. He’s always enjoyed taking showers after an efficient workout for this exact reason—the refreshment it brought. And he especially enjoyed them when he found Ghost waiting for him after he'd gotten out.

Lately, that hasn't been happening. After most of his late-night workouts, he'd come back to the room only to find Ghost missing. Soap had a sneaking suspicion about what's been going on, but hadn't had a chance to bring it up. That is, until now. “You an’ König, huh?” He teased, bumping his shoulder against Ghost’s. “Word on the street is you an' im’ have been hitting it off as of late.”

Ghost, who had been perfectly minding his own business, nearly dropped the knife he’d been polishing. His whole body went rigid, every instinct inside him yelling to run as he forced his hand to keep leisurely moving over the blade. Years of training kicked in, and he knew better than to show any sign of alarm. He kept his movements steady, masking the tension that rippled through his muscles.

“I have no idea what you’re talking bout’,” he responded, his voice in its usual gruff tone, steady and smooth, as if he wasn’t having an inner turmoil between fight or flight. If it had been anyone other than Johnny, they wouldn’t have had the nerve to say something so blunt, let alone sit down next to him. Hell, he wouldn’t have even let them finish their sentence with how informal it had started.

But this was Johnny.

The man who never knew when to leave well enough alone—who always kept pushing until he got the answers he sought—and the one person to bypass all of Ghost’s defenses after he'd thought there was nothing left to discover behind them. Soap learned to read him like a book. Which is why, despite Ghost’s voice and body posture giving little to nothing away, the split second where he’d frozen up at the sergeant's words (a moment anyone else would have missed) Soap managed to catch. And that one second gave the Scott all the information he needed.

“Ha! I knew it!” Soap cheered, his face breaking out into a smile. “Come off it, L.T.. I know he’s been growing on ya.”

“You’re imagining things, Johnny.”

Soap chuckled, shaking his head as he shifted so his body was facing more towards Ghost on the edge of the bed.

“You can try to deny it all ya wan’, but I’ave witnesses. All the gossip from the rooks an’ practically everyone on base is how they saw you two hangin’ out at the trainin’ grounds a few days ago, 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺, might I add. And then there's the fact you’ve been coming back to the room la–er than usual the past couple o’ weeks. I thought maybe you were busy with paperwork, but now it’s obvious you’ve been hangin’ out with König. I knew you’d end up liking—”

“𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘯𝘺.” Ghost grumbled, his voice coming off harsher than he intended. Soap instantly shut up at the warning tone in Ghost’s voice, and instead he stopped and actually 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 at Ghost. He took in how Ghost’s shoulders were slightly hunched, how his jaw had clenched tightly, and how his fingers were now locked on the hilt of his knife so tight his knuckles were white from the pressure. It made something in Soap’s stomach twist uncomfortably, seeing how tense Simon was within the confines of their shared room. He hadn’t seen Simon this tense since they first started rooming together. No matter how stressful the job got, this was the one place Simon was always relaxed; this was where Soap could see the real him. Seeing him like this, like he wanted to be anywhere but here—anywhere without 𝘩𝘪𝘮 in it—made his skin crawl.

“Si,” That one syllable held so much. Ghost tightened his jaw, taking in a quick, shallow breath. He was making an effort to keep his eyes focused on the knife in his hands and not the breathing body next to him. He knew if he looked, it’d be all over. “Ya look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Soap joked softly, trying to inject some levity into the thick atmosphere. He knew he had to come at this carefully; trying to force the information out of Simon wouldn’t work, and making him feel like he was being interrogated would only worsen things. He had to be patient. But despite Soap’s efforts, Ghost merely shifted, his posture stiff and defensive.

For all Ghost’s bravado in the field, this was a different kind of battle—a war against his own feelings, and it made him feel vulnerable in a way he loathed. He didn’t want Johnny to see him like this. He shouldn't have to.

“I’m fine,” Ghost muttered, trying to shake off the weight that pressed down on him. But the ugly truth was, he wasn’t fine. The more Johnny talked about König, the more he thought about him; the more he thought about the Austrian, the more conflicted he felt. There was 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 forming between them that was undeniable—König’s quiet, unsettling nature, mixed with an unexpected vulnerability, drew him in.

But the realization gnawed at him, filling him with self-loathing and guilt. He loved Johnny. He really did. There was no doubt about that. Soap was someone he never thought he’d find in life, let alone deserve. He still didn’t think he deserved him. And these…𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 he has been fighting hard not to acknowledge were only serving to prove that. How could he start to care about another man—a man he despised only weeks ago—when the one he truly wanted was right there, beside him?

He was supposed to be trying to solve the mystery that was König to keep his team safe, to keep 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘯𝘺 safe, not grow attached.

“Fine, are ya?" Soap raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth curling into a soft, understanding smile. He leaned forward, resting a hand on Ghost’s knee. “Y’know you can talk to me, Si,” Soap reassured, his voice low and soothing. “I know somethin’s eatin’ at ye.”

Ghost clenched his jaw, staring down at the ground as if the wooden floorboards held all the answers. “It’s…complicated,” he finally admitted, the words heavy on his tongue. “You don’t understand, Johnny. If I let myself start to…𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 König, then it changes everythin’. I don’t want to hurt you.”

"Wha are you talkin’ about?” Soap leaned closer. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I can see tha you care, Si. An’ it’s okay, really. It’s okay to start likin’ him. You're a soldier, not some emotionless drone. Y’know it’s alright to change your mind bout’ him."

Ghost stiffened, his breath hitching slightly.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

“I don’t care,” Ghost replied, a low grumble of defiance slipping through the mask that covered his face. His voice was cold, but there was a flicker of vulnerability behind it—one that Soap could see.

“Don’ give me tha,” Soap shot back gently but firmly, shifting an inch closer. “We’ve fought hard to come through this together. You can’t just shut it all off. Not now.”

“It’s better this way,” Ghost replied, and for a moment, he turned, his eyes piercing through the darkness, revealing the turmoil beneath the surface. “It’s safer."

“Safer for who? You or me?” Soap asked, his green eyes unwavering. “You’re not some automaton. You’re human, Simon, an’ I see you. I see how much you care.”

“And tha’s the problem!” Ghost’s voice cracked, surprising even him. There was a sincerity in his proclamation that made Soap’s heart race. “I love you, Johnny. An’ I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to hurt you, John.”

Soap paused, letting Ghost's admission settle in the air between them. It wasn’t often Simon said he loved him; despite having been dating for about two and a half years now, he still could count the number of times Simon has ever said he loved him on one hand. It didn’t bother him—he knew Simon loved him. He just showed it more through action than words. Like how Simon would bring back small souvenirs from missions for him, or let him rant for hours on end on absolutely everything that came to mind, or the soft touches when others weren’t looking. It was small things like that, that Simon used to show his love. Those things meant more to him than any three words ever could. But when Simon did say those three words, it was always how he knew something was important. This was serious—much more serious than he thought.

“I know you love me,” Soap said softly. “And you’re not gonna mess it up. You’re allowed to care bout’ König too. I don’ understand why you’re so upset over—” Soap’s eyes widened as realization dawned on him. Simon wasn’t talking about caring for König the same way he cared for Gaz or Roach; Simon was talking about caring for him in the way you care about someone you love. The way Simon cared about 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

“Simon…” Soap started, voice soft and careful.

“Don’t.” Ghost muttered. “Just…don’t. Forget everything you’ve heard tonight, alright? It doesn’t matter. I can fix it, we don—”

“Shut up,” Soap spat, his voice seething with anger. “Don’t you dare say this doesn’t matter—that your 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 don’t matter. They matter to me, Simon. This isn’t something you just fix—”

“But it has to be!” Ghost argued, failing to mask the crack in his voice. “I don’ want to lose you—I can’t, Johnny,” he continued, his voice growing softer by the end.

“Hey,” Soap started, his voice soft yet steady. He brought a hand up to the bottom of Ghost’s mask. “Can I?” The question hung in the air, and for a moment, time felt suspended. Ghost stiffened, the fabric of his mask barely shifting with the subtle inhale he took. Soap’s heart raced as he studied Ghost’s posture, the barely perceptible tension in his shoulders, and the way his fingers tightened around the long-forgotten knife. Soap knew this was out of the blue, but he wanted to see Simon’s face—he 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 to. He needed to be able to see all of the man he loved for what he was about to say.

After a few minutes of silence, Soap decided he’d been given his answer—a hard no. But before he could withdraw his hand, Simon grabbed his wrist (touch feather light, barely grasping his wrist) and after hesitating for a moment, he broke the silence with a single, almost imperceptible nod. Soap smiled softly and, with a tentative hand, reached forward, each movement careful and deliberate. Ghost didn’t flinch; he remained still, trusting Soap as he had a million times in the field. As Soap's fingers brushed the edge of the mask, he felt Ghost's breath hitch—a rush of air laden with anticipation and uncertainty.

“You can tell me to stop anytime,” Soap reassured, his voice barely above a whisper as he worked the mask loose. He pulled it away slowly, deliberate, as if unveiling a treasure long hidden from view, which to him, he was. He removed the fabric and revealed the sharply defined features of Ghost’s face—stubbled jaw, high cheekbones, scars that ran across the surface—one over the bridge of Ghost’s nose, another along his cheek intersecting with the one that sliced through his lips, each beautiful in their own way—and intense blue eyes that bore the weight of countless battles and yet shone with something softer, almost hauntingly beautiful.

“There you are,” Soap breathed out, a bright smile gracing his features. Ghost’s gaze softened before he glanced away, his head slightly lowering to avoid Soap’s eyes. “Hey now, look at me,” Soap said, his voice gentle. “Please.” Ghost closed his eyes, inhaling a shaky breath before he turned back to face Soap.

“Thank you,” Soap said. “I know you don't want to lose me, and I promise you won’t.”

“Johnny—”

“Let me finish,” Soap interrupted, his voice stern. Ghost hesitated a moment before letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Soap smiled. “Good. Now, you’re allowed to care about König too,” Soap raised a hand, silencing the interruption Ghost was about to make. “It doesn’t erase what we have. We can figure this out together, Si.”

Simon stared at him wide-eyed, like he’d just grown a second head. It was cute, if he was being honest.

“How can you say tha?” Ghost asked incredulously. “There's no way you could mean—”

“But I do,” Soap replied, reaching out, his voice steady and warm. His hand found Ghost’s, their fingers intertwining. “I’ve been thinkin’ about all this too. It’s not just you who’s been looking at König. There’s somethin’ about im’ tha’s different, aye? So if you’re feeling somethin’ for im’, it doesn’t mean you care bout’ me any less or tha you’ll lose me.”

Ghost’s heart raced, the tension in his body slowly beginning to ease. “It’s goin’ to be messy,” he tried to argue.

“C’mon, messy is our middle name, Si.” Soap chuckled. “Our lives are a constant whirlwind, and we’ve gotten through it all. I’m not afraid of a little mess. Besides, we’re a team. We can work through this together.”

“You always know what to say, don’t ya Johnny?”

“Aye, that’s my job,” Soap replied, his voice light accompanied by a small smile. He stared at Ghost for a second, his eyes admiring the man in front of him before he leaned in, capturing Ghost’s lips with his. The kiss was sweet and unrushed, a way of reassuring Ghost he was here and he wasn’t going anywhere. Ghost’s lips were warm and ragged against his own. He could feel the soft tickle of Ghost’s breath across his face, fingers crading through Ghost’s hair as they breathed each other in. They parted after a moment or two, Soap leaning his forehead against Ghost’s as he caught his breath.

“I love you, Si,” Soap whispered.

Ghost grumbled, moving to suck lightly at Soap’s neck. Soap couldn’t help but chuckle, a familiar glint of mischievousness forming in his eyes. “So now you decide to make a move, huh?” he teased and lightly pushed Ghost away. The lieutenant huffed, annoyance obvious in his tone. Soap ignored him though in favor of rising from the edge of the bed and settling down on the floor between Ghost’s legs. “It was about time," Soap continued. "After all, I’ve been sittin’ ere’ in nothin but a towel for the pas’ couple o’ minutes and you hadn’t made a move once, 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵. I was startin’ to feel a little neglected,” Soap finished, his voice low as he slowly ran soft circles along Ghost's thighs.

As much as he wanted to pretend this was all for a good time, he knew Ghost’s motives were slightly skewed. Ghost was showing he loved him in one of the best ways he knew how—action, that was a fact, but he was also searching for a distraction. Which Soap was more than happy to provide. After all, he was well aware that if Ghost were allowed to keep concentrating on this topic for too long, he’d inevitably fall down a dark hole of his own self-loathing. He would somehow find a way to convince himself that everything he'd said tonight was a lie and that he didn’t deserve the love of another person. Soap already knew Ghost struggled with accepting his love, so adding another’s into the mix (one both he and Ghost aren’t sure exists) would definitely help bring those kinds of conclusions to fruition. He had to distract Ghost for his own good. There was no debating that. He also maybe selfishly wanted to remind Ghost just how much he loved him. And possibly remind him just who he belonged to. Ghost was his just as he was Ghost’s. Nothing could change that.

Ghost took a deep breath, letting his eyes truly wander down Soap’s body for the first time since they started this discussion, a glint of desire forming in his gaze.

“Alright,” he said, his voice steady. “What exactly did you have in mind, 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵?”

Soap smirked. “Lettin’ me pick today, aye? Tha’s a dangerous game, Si,” Soap said, trailing his hands up and down Ghost’s chest. “Ya never know what I could ave’ us do.” Ghost rolled his eyes at Soap’s teasing and, instead of answering, leaned down, connecting his lips with Soap’s in a hungry kiss—the best way to shut him up.

It was like a jolt of electricity—sparks flying everywhere. It was nice and harsh (completely different from their earlier kiss) and sent a wave of warmth hurtling throughout Soap’s entire body. It was clear Ghost knew what he was doing—his mouth moved in a harsh attack of tongue and teeth, forcing Soap’s mouth open to deepen it but instead of being put off by the aggressive nature, Soap relished in it, his hands roaming up and down Ghost’s body in a need for 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. Ghost seemed to realize that, and as he ravaged Soap's mouth, he snaked an arm under the Sergeant's and manhandled him up onto his lap—intent on delivering.

Soap didn’t hesitate to lean more into the kiss, humming into Ghost’s mouth like the Lieutenant was a Kobe steak at a Michelin-starred restaurant that he was dead set on savoring. He gave a small, teasing grind of his hips, eliciting a low groan out of Ghost. No matter what (if given the opportunity) Soap would always tease Ghost. He especially made sure to do it during times like 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.

“Always so easy to please, aren’t ya Si?” Soap continued to tease between heavy breaths, his dick twitching in excitement.

Ghost smirked and, in retaliation, began working his hands around Soap’s waist, sneaking his hands up with a specific goal in mind. He stopped only when he got to Soap’s chest (his target reached) and relished in the little whimper Soap let out, followed by the arch of Soap’s back when he got close to his nipples, just like Ghost knew would happen. At this point he knew Soap's body as well as he knew his own, if not better.

“Now who’s easy, Johnny?” Ghost whispered.

“Still you—ah 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬,” Soap gasped as Ghost twisted his right nipple 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 and, not wasting a second, recaptured his mouth and sought out his tongue. Ghost moved his hands to Soap’s waist and pulled their bodies flush against each other only seconds later, as if he couldn't get enough of the Sergeant and needed more. Soap didn’t hesitate to respond with just as much vigor and hunger, if not more. He whimpered and ground his body against Ghost, chasing as much friction as he could and enjoying every noise he enticed out of the lieutenant, always striving to hear more. It was a reward every time. He especially enjoyed the way Ghost’s fingers dug into his skin, no doubt leaving marks he could admire later.

It felt like centuries before Soap pulled back from the kiss; the need for oxygen out weighing his desire to continue to get lost in the moment. If he could, he would kiss Simon until the world ended. There was nothing better than the electricity that came from just kissing Simon, a tingle that started at his lips and traveled down his spine, building up within him until every nerve in his body was on fire. It was something he’s only ever experienced with Simon.

It was always Simon—no one else.

And the mere thought that said man would ever think Soap would be willing to give this up—to give 𝘩𝘪𝘮 up, was absurd. He’d make sure Ghost knew just how much he cared. But first, he had a job to do.

Soap opened his mouth, ready to entice Ghost into giving him more, but lost his voice in his throat as Ghost dipped to his neck, trailing his teeth lightly against his skin.

It was hot. So, so, hot, and perfect, and everything he’d ever wanted—then, as if Ghost knew what he had been ready to do (because they’re so hyper aware of each other from years of being in life-or-death situations together)—there was more heat, more intention to the way Ghost sucked above his pulse point. The pure pleasure of it forced Soap’s eyes to flutter shut, dropping his head against Ghost’s shoulder with a drawn out groan.

“Si,” he breathed, scratching his nails down the others back. There was a huff of warm air against his neck before Ghost moved lower, licking across his exposed collarbone, knowing exactly where each sensitive area was. He could scarcely think above the arousal spreading through his blood, setting it alight, but somehow managed to remember that 𝘩𝘦 was supposed to be in charge tonight.

"Hey, I thought—” Soap murmured through ragged breaths and leaned forward to mouth along Ghost’s neck, trailing sinful lips to bite at the Brits earlobe. “I thought I was choosin’ what we did tonight.”

“You were," Ghost responded gruffly, sucking lightly down Soap's collarbone. "But you decided to be mouthy instead of choosing.”

“You— you think 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 was mouthy? I haven’t ev— ah, shite. Even showed you just how 'mouthy’ I can be,” Soap said, making an effort to break away from Ghost’s lips and regain his composure. Before Ghost could protest, he moved away and slowly began inching down between Ghost’s legs, his hands coming to rest dangerously high on the Lieutenant's thighs. “But how bout’ I show you?”

“Fucking hell, Johhny,” Ghost breathed, his voice more gruff than before, no doubt the image of Soap being burned into the back of his eyelids—his lovers eyes, dark green and peering up at him, face painted with a permanent blush and his lips swollen and spit-slick.

Soap chuckled before putting a hand on Ghost’s bulge and pressing down, eliciting a groan from the taller man. “You’re always so quick to get riled up, Si; it’s almost too easy.”

“So, you don’t wan’ta cum tonight is what I’m hearin', right?” Ghost quipped back.

“Hey, I dinnae say tha',” Soap said, a small pout forming on his face. “You don’ ave’ta be so mean, y’know. Especially when I’m about to suck your dick.”

“Just get on with it, Johnny.”

“So impatient,” Soap grumbled, rolling his eyes playfully but still not 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 anything. With a huff of annoyance and intention of moving things along, Ghost pulled his belt down, just slightly, enough for him to reach inside and get his dick out. He smirked as he watched Soap swallow at the sight.

𝘈𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘢, 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘯𝘺? Ghost silently mused.

“Shite,” the Scott breathed, watching Ghost’s hand begin to leisurely stroke up and down his length. It didn’t matter how many times Soap saw it; he’d always be astounded by just how big Ghost was. It had to be some seventeen centimeters, more or less, and a girth that would make weaker men back down. But luckily for Ghost, he never knew when to give up.

“Open wide,” Ghost ordered and reached forward, brushing the hand he’d been using past Soap’s lips, the slight taste of pre-come gracing the brunettes' tastebuds.

Soap never needed to be told twice.

He instantly began sucking on the digits graciously granted to him, wrapping his tongue around each one, making a show of it. With a low chuckle, Ghost pulled down his lower lip, grazing his thumb over Soap’s glistening teeth.

“You're so obedient, aren’t ya Johnny? The perfect little whore for me.”

Soap whimpered and gently nibbled at Ghost’s thumb, enjoying how the callused pad slid between his teeth until they clacked together. Soap sucked on Ghost’s fingers for a few seconds longer before moving away with a little pop. He leaned toward Ghost, eyelids fluttering shut as he mouthed at Ghost’s abs through his t-shirt. Ghost was throbbing, a shaky sigh slipping from his chest as Soap got closer and closer to his groin.

“Johnny,” he exhaled, like a prayer, and the brunette drew back. Soap didn’t miss the annoyed grumble he received for his defiance, eliciting a wicked grin to grace his features. He moved his hand, slapping the side of Ghost’s thigh twice.

“Pants fully off, Si,” he grinned, amusement clear as day written in his eyes. Wanting to hurry this along, Ghost bit down his annoyance and instead curved his back, making quick work of undoing his belt buckle. The metal clinked, reverberating through the room as he tossed the belt somewhere to the side. He didn’t miss the way Soap’s breath caught when he lifted his hips, popping the button off of his black cargo pants and dragging them down along with his underwear.

They locked eyes, and Ghost watched, lust fogging his brain, as Soap licked a broad stripe up his cock. A groan punched out of his throat, and he couldn’t look away as Soap’s tongue darted out again.

“Fucking hell,” he grunted out, knuckles white from where he was gripping the sheets. He couldn't see Soap smirk, but he felt the ghost (ha ha) of it against his thigh.

And Soap, the tease, instead of finishing what he started, began sucking love bites on the inside of his thighs.

Despite the irritation, Ghost couldn’t stop his head from dropping back, moaning softly. Johnny had a way with his mouth, Ghost would give him that. After each bite, Soap licked at them, pressing a sloppy kiss, then moved closer to his cock. It was antagonizing how slow Soap was moving, but each minute he was forced to wait made the want inside him grow, burning throughout his veins, and the thrill of what was to come all the more enticing. And finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, after what felt like an eternity Soap’s fingertips found their way to the base of his dick, and Ghost swallowed, bucking slightly into the loose grip. Soap chuckled softly before he decided to show mercy and dragged his tongue up the length of Ghost’s cock once again, only this time he didn't 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱. He took the head into his mouth, Ghost making a noise caught between a grunt and a moan, and slid his tongue over the slit that sent shockwaves coursing straight to the base of Ghost’s spine.

𝘏𝘰𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬.

The hand on Soap’s head tightened with each pass he made, a small moan punching out of Ghost with each swipe of his tongue. It took everything in Ghost not to start fucking into Soap’s mouth, feeling moisture bead and drip down his face from the restraint. Soap hummed contently, making sure to put extra effort into his work. Ghost was being generous tonight—maybe 𝘵𝘰𝘰 generous, after all, if it were any other night, he wouldn’t have been able to do half of the teasing he’d done earlier, and he certainly wouldn’t be in control right now if he had been. Any other day and he’d be having his throat fucked so thouroughly to shit he’d barely be able to speak for a week. But Simon was being gentle and 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 patient tonight. It was only fair he put in some of his best work.

It was heaven and hell, the way Soap collected the spit on his free hand when he pulled back to the head, using it to stroke the length he couldn’t swallow down. A tiny groan escaped Ghost’s lips when he felt the head of his dick brush the back of Soap’s throat, his hips rolling against his will. Johnny was being extremely enthusiastic. He had no doubt why that was, but he tried to keep his thoughts focused on the warm mouth around his cock and not the meaning—the 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. If he stopped to think about it, Soap would lose all the progress he’s made getting him to full mast.

Soap must’ve noticed Ghost’s thoughts began to wander because, before he knew it, Soap was taking his entire dick in one go. This time, though, Soap didn’t take his time, instead going down on him with new vigor the way he would if they were stuck at a safe house on a mission and needed a quick and efficient release.

“You fucker,” Ghost breathed after a moment.

“Close?” Soap questioned teasingly, taking a small second to nip at Ghost’s thigh before going back down again. Ghost didn’t answer; instead, he thrust into Soap’s mouth, strangling a loud moan from the Sergeant who found himself unable to re-adjust to the new pace from pure shock.

The feeling of Ghost’s dick sliding across his mouth ruthlessly, forcing his vision to become fuzzy at the edges, was pure ecstasy as he tried to get used to the movement by laxing his jaw. Soap was wrecked so thoroughly he couldn’t even think beyond the need to feel and take everything he was being offered. Meanwhile it was primal, the way Ghost’s head rolled back weakly, groaning as he pounded into Soap, his only focus being trying to find release.

A gasp of air, ragged and breathless, filled the air, and Ghost locked his eyes to Soap's, the Sergeant’s pupils blown and dark with lust. The rough pace of Ghost’s cock hitting Soap’s throat seemed to increase at the sight, once, twice, three times, repeatedly. The pure force of each one forced Soap to close his eyes, and for the first time, he felt his teeth drag across the length of Ghost’s cock.

“Fuck–” and that seemed to be what pushed Ghost off the edge. He spilled, upon that one breath, into Soap’s mouth with a thrust that went deeper than any of the others before. Soap didn’t budge though, not once trying to pull off even as he lost his ability to breathe, instead, taking it effortlessly, each drop of it. When Ghost finished, he pulled Soap off with an audible pop, knowing if he didn't, the Sergeant would begin to tease and over stimulate him. There was a small drop mingling with the saliva on Soap’s chin as he sat there panting, looking up at Ghost proudly. Ghost chuckled and leaned forward, gathering it on his finger and pushing it back between Soap’s lips.

“You missed some,” Ghost murmured. Soap hummed, eagerly taking it and keeping eye contact, even when Ghost looked down at his neck, watching his Adam's apple bob when he swallowed. Soap wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after a second.

“Up for round two?” he asked, a cheeky smirk wide across his face.

Ghost huffed. “You’re such a slut.”

“I dinnae hear you say no.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

König sat on the edge of his bed, the hard metal frame creaking softly beneath him. The dim light of the barrack room flickered from the small lamp on his desk, casting long shadows that danced around him. In his hand, he held the note Ghost had given him, folded, slightly wrinkled, but unmistakably clear with its message:

𝗠𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗿 𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀. 14:00 𝗦𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗽. 𝗔𝗻𝘆 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱.

He read it again, as if expecting the letters to rearrange themselves or for some hidden meaning to surface. Ever since he’d gotten back from the hospital nearly three months ago, König had found himself in variously weird situations with Ghost, but this had to be the strangest out of them all. He almost missed when Ghost consistently kept his distance—at least then, he didn’t have constant confusion in his life.

When he saw the letter laying on the ground beside him a day ago, he really didn’t know what to expect of its contents. Now, he was questioning if he was still in the hospital in a coma.

It’s not like he couldn’t go (he’d been cleared two days prior to Ghost’s invitation by medical to start getting back into the heavier side of things again). In a week or so, he’d even be able to be sent back out on missions. But why should he go?

König let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his dark hair. The note felt like a puzzle he just couldn't piece together. Why would Ghost invite him to spar? They had never trained together; in fact, the one and only time they were in the gym at the same time was when they had that single sparring match. Looking back on it, that felt like such a long time ago. But that didn’t exactly help him. He was still left with the why of the situation. Was this some kind of trick? Why would Ghost want to spar to answer any questions he had? Would Ghost actually explain his weird behavior? Or was this all a set-up for public humiliation? It was certainly plausible. König wasn’t exactly at full strength after all. Heck, he barely stood his own against Ghost when he wasn’t fresh off an injury; now he’d probably be thrown on his ass faster than he could blink.

But there was a flicker of excitement—could this be an opportunity? Ghost was known for his relentless determination and exceptional prowess in combat (something König experienced firsthand) and if he wanted to teach König something (which he’s strangely done before and what led to this whole dilemma) it could serve as a chance to better himself. To feel that 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭 again after so long.

Still, the notion of sparring with someone who hardly regarded his presence sent a shiver down König’s spine. Was this the lieutenant's way of challenging him? Or an attempt at forming peace? On one hand, the thrill of engaging atop the mat (of testing himself against someone like Ghost once again without the worry of hurting them) was enticing. Getting answers was even more appealing. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more his insecurities rose.

König slumped back onto the bed, the weight of everything pressing down on him. What would be the point of showing up? He couldn’t give Ghost a real fight, and he certainly wouldn’t benefit from having his ass handed to him—it would only lead to hundreds of prying eyes focused on him, laughing at him or worse pitying him. He didn’t even have a guarantee Ghost would explain himself. The worst he’d do by not showing up would be pissing off Ghost, which honestly did give a good reason to show up when he thought about it. The less bad blood, the better.

He sighed and picked up the note again, turning it over in his hands.

He had four days left to decide. That should be plenty of time, right?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gaz leaned back against the worn leather couch, his feet propped on the coffee table. A bowl of popcorn sat in his lap, half-empty but quickly diminishing as he absentmindedly picked out pieces and scrolled through the available movie options on the screen with the flick of his finger.

He grumbled, sighing deeply as he threw his head back on the couch.

“C’mon, mate, I need your help. Ya gotta suggest somethin’. It can’t be more of the same old action flicks,” Gaz said, glancing over to Roach, who was seated on the floor, surrounded by snacks and energy drinks. Roach, in all his glory, simply shrugged and popped the cap off another soda.

“Hey, I’m just ere' for the snacks,” he responded with a grin. “You choose the movie, an’ I’ll supply the sustenance.”

“ANd I’lL sUpPLY ThE SUstEnANcE”, Gaz mocked. "Yeah, right, more like eat it all. How bout’ ya stop stuffin’ your face an’ help a brother out and 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 a movie.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you're indecisive. Besides, I’m not the one with the remote. Movie night rules state those who hold the remote pick the movie.”

“Bullshit! Last week I had the remote, an’ yet you 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 didn’t let me pick.”

“Tha’s because tha movie was shit, and you know it.”

“That is not—” Before Gaz could respond, the door creaked open, and König stepped in, his tall frame taking up most of the entrance. He looked slightly confused, as though he had stumbled into an impromptu gathering he wasn’t quite prepared for. He wasn’t exactly expecting anyone to be gathered in the rec room this late at night; let alone Gaz and Roach after all. He'd been planning on doing his usual reading, but it seemed he accidently interrupted a movie night between the two Sergeants' instead. Just great.

“Oh, I didn’t realize anyone else would be here,” König said, glancing back at the doorway. “I—”

“Look who finally decided to join! Grab a seat, König,” Gaz called out enthusiastically, a wide grin spreading across his face.

König blinked. Was he…supposed to be here? He didn’t think so, but perhaps he was wrong. He tried to remember Gaz ever mentioning a movie night of some kind for today, yet all he could come up with were blanks. The last movie night he attended was the one Soap forced him to join a few weeks ago. He was almost positive there hadn’t been talk about a new one since that night.

“Gaz, c’mon, the poor man clearly doesn’t know what you're talkin’ about,” Roach chimed in, turning to look at Gaz. “Lemme guess, you didn’t even tell König we were havin’ a movie night, did you?”

“What? O' course I did! Look right here—oh,” Gaz said, glancing down at the phone he just pulled out. “Crap,” he continued and looked up to where König was still standing, looking even more confused than before. “Man, I’m sorry, König. I thought I sent you a message sayin’ to join us for a movie, but I guess I didn’t hit send.” Gaz chuckled nervously. “But hey! Your ere’ now, s’why don’ ya join us?” Gaz suggested, a sheepish smile forming across his face.

König's confusion slowly melted away as he processed Gaz's explanation. He let out a soft sigh. "Ah, I see," he replied, his shoulders relaxing. He was relieved to know he hadn’t accidentally ignored a message from Gaz. The last thing he wanted to do was upset the Sergeant. He really didn’t need anymore problems. Or unnecessary confusion.

With a nod, he made his way over to the couch opposite to Gaz and Roach. As he reached the couch, he lowered himself down slowly and settled into the cushions, trying to show Gaz he wasn’t bothered by his misstep. "It’s alright, Gaz. I’d be happy to join you," he said, his voice warm and steady. "I appreciate the invitation."

Gaz’s face lit up. “Really? Ya sure we ain’t interrupting whatever you came down ere’ to do?”

König nodded. “Ja, I am sure,” he said and meant it. This wasn't exactly what he had planned for tonight, and to be honest, he really didn’t want to be stuck socializing, but he figured he owed Gaz for reminding him of his appointment a while back and for putting up with all the drama he’s caused since joining 141. Not that König doubted the Sergeant enjoyed it—he was always sharing any and all gossip on base after all. But he still felt he owed the Sergeant some type of apology.

There was also the fact Gaz and Roach weren’t terrible people to hang around who mostly kept each other entertained. He could just sit there the entire time without uttering a word and no one would notice. Therefore, there was no reason to say no. A win-win as most would call it.

“Brilliant,” Gaz said. “This is perfect! Now you can help me decide on a movie since this one ere’ is being mingy.”

“I am not,” Roach argued. “You’re the one throwin’ a wobbly.”

“Rude! How bout’ you go back to stuffin’ your face? Clearly your mouth's s’only good for eatin’ and spewing 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Indecisive.”

Gaz flipped Roach the bird while grumling something before refocusing his attention on the Austrian in front of him. “Anyway,” he started. “What do you think would be a good movie choice?”

“I say horror all the way!” a Scottish accent called from the doors to the rec room, drawing everyone's attention to the one and only John MacTavish. He carried a tub of popcorn as he walked through the rec room doors, a grin plastered on his face, while Ghost followed, his silent presence looming behind the Sergeant, eyes hidden behind his skull mask.

“I brought the snacks!” Soap announced proudly. “Now the real movie night can begin.”

“Sorry to say, but I’m way ahead of you,” Roach said, gesturing to the circle of snacks and drinks surrounding him. “But you get an A for effort.”

“Dammit,” Soap whined. “O’course you had to go an’ steal my thunder.”

“There wasn’t much to steal to begin with.”

“Ouch!” Soap shouted, bringing a hand to his chest in a sign of being hurt. “An’ ere’ I thought we had somethin’ special.”

"A'right, shuddup you two,” Gaz interjected. “I was trying to ask 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨,” a pointed look to Soap, “What we should watch t’night.”

Soap held up his hands—or, more accurately, hand (he still had the bucket of popcorn after all)—in a mock surrender. “A’iright, keep your panties on.”

“I’m gon’ stuff that entire thing of popcorn in your mouth if you don’ shuddup.”

Soap chuckled. “Good luck gettin’ past L.T. ere’," he threw a hand over his shoulder, thumb pointing towards Ghost, "But fine, I’ll let König decide. I’m sure he has better taste than you or Roach anyway.”

“Thank you—hey! I have excellent taste! I’m just choosin’ to be generous t’night by letting König pick.”

“Now who’s the liar?” Roach grumbled. He yelped when Gaz kicked him in the back, quickly turning to glare at Gaz. “Really? Tha’s how you wanna play this?”

“Yes, it is,” Gaz said cheekily. “This isn’t America; I don’ owe you the freedom of free speech. Especially when it's insultin’ me.”

“Oh, I’ll show you insult—”

"A'right, that’s enough,” Ghost grumbled, his voice practically echoing off the walls despite him talking normally. It was like a wake-up call whenever his voice was heard, silencing everyone instantaneously. “Stop squabbling an’ let König decide. At this rate you'll never get a movie runnin'.”

Everyone stared at Ghost, each person's expression different from the last. Soap looked slightly smug (like he was in the loop on something everyone else wasn’t), Gaz looked baffled, Roach seemed intrigued, and König barely gave anything away from the unknowing eye. But underneath the hood that hid him, he was what some would call shell-shocked. Here Ghost was, being 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 in front of other people to 𝘩𝘪𝘮. Or as nice as the lieutenant seemed capable of.

Maybe he should’ve left when he had the chance.

It seemed his plan of being silent the entire night wouldn’t exactly work without going unnoticed. No matter what he did, Ghost saw. He couldn’t help but be slightly annoyed by this new knowledge. After all, he enjoyed being what was essentially a fly on the wall when he was with the Sergeants'. He was acknowledged, but their own petty squabbles kept him at the back of their minds. Someone who would be mentioned here and there but hardly truly acknowledged. It made him comfortable—not having to seriously socialize and being reminded of his place. He was a guest; he was only temporary to them.

“Uh, danke, Ghost,” König finally spoke. He couldn’t let his annoyance or lack of comfort show—not with Ghost watching his every move. He’s already given the lieutenant far more reactions in the past that he was ashamed of. He didn’t like being read easily, and it seemed when it came to Ghost he always somehow made it too easy. “But I think Soap’s choice was a good one,” König continued.

“Ha! Told ya König has better taste,” Soap said, walking over to the couch and plopping down next to said Austrian, bumping his shoulder playfully with König’s. König didn’t pay much attention to Soap though, his focus being laser-drawn to the masked man making his way over right behind Soap, right towards 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

To his shock and demise, Ghost slid into the spot on his other side (instead of sitting next to Soap, who had plenty of free space next to him) creating an unintentional fortress around the Austrian.

König instantly stilled as he felt Ghost's body weight slightly press against him. He’s sat near Ghost before but never this close. And definitely never when others could see. It was like there was a silent agreement that if Ghost was even semi-nice to him, it would never be in front of others. König couldn’t remember when he missed the memo that was changing.

He wasn’t sure he wanted that to change.

He didn’t understand Ghost being nice to him when there weren’t prying eyes, but he could at least somewhat rationalize it. He couldn’t rationalize anything about this though, and all that did was serve to make his skin crawl.

He could feel the three sergeants' gazes on the two of them, and that only helped to fuel his nerves.

“Uh, well,” Gaz stumbled, trying to take his mind off whatever was unfolding before him. He wanted to ask, but he knew if he brought too much attention to it, Ghost could stop whatever progress he was making with König. He could only assume Soap had finally gotten through to Ghost—which would be fantastic, by the way—to explain the sudden shift in demeanor. He’d certainly ask later to be sure. There was absolutely no way he wasn’t getting the full gossip on whatever this was. “Think our big guy can handle it?” he continued. Okay. Maybe not the best choice to throw König under the bus like that, but cut him some slack. His mind was working on less than half his usual precision.

“Damn Gaz, call the man out, why don’ cha?” Roach joked, picking up on Gaz’s attempt to keep the atmosphere light and the attention off of Ghost’s weird actions. At least, that’s what Roach hoped Gaz was doing. The man was an oblivious idiot at times.

“I didn’t mean it like tha!” Gaz defended, silently grateful for Roach contributing to his cause. “ I just know most people don’ like horror is all. An' König has never mentioned likin’ scary movies.”

“I do not scare easily,” König said, trying to project a false sense of confidence and move this night along. Maybe the movie would keep his mind from wandering over to Ghost if he was lucky. “But I am not a fan of surprises.”

“Perfect! This will be the ultimate test then,” Soap said, then chuckled as he leaned in closer to König. “Just don’ jump and break my ribs.”

Before König could respond, Ghost huffed next to him, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips under the mask as he whispered, “Let’s see you try to keep a straight face through this one, lieutenant.”

König hated the way those words sent a shiver down his spine. It was like the thrill of being on the battlefield anytime Ghost challenged him. It was strange and quite frankly confusing. He usually always tried not to focus too much on it (normally focusing on the other feelings that accompanied it), but right now, that seemed to be the only thing he could focus on.

“If I don't, you’d never know,” Köing finally shot back, his nerves enhancing tenfold and adrenaline spiking as he waited to see Ghost’s reaction. It was like stepping through a landmine, never knowing when he’d set one off. It was both terrifying yet thrilling. A feeling he’s always been reaching for since childhood, and despite all his apprehension towards Ghost, he just couldn't help but chase.

A spark of some kind made its way into Ghost’s eyes. If König was bold enough to put a label on it, he’d say it was excitement mixed with amusement.

“Careful König, you don’ want to test me,” Ghost said, his voice still a whisper yet filled with warning. König couldn’t fight the bemused smile that started to form under his hood—he was excited. He really was fucked in the head, wasn’t he?

"A'right, well, if König says he can handle it, I’ll take his word for it,” Gaz said, snapping König’s attention away from Ghost. König could almost swear he heard Ghost lightly huff, as if he were annoyed. By what? König wasn’t sure. “Now the question is: what movie are we watchin’?” Gaz continued, tossing a half-eaten kernel into the air and snatching it mid-flight with his mouth.

“How about ‘Nightmare on Elm Street.’ It’s classic, and trust me, it’ll keep us awake,” Roach chimed in.

“Tha’ sounds as good a movie as any to me,” Soap agreed. He turned to König. “You wanna watch tha’ one, big guy?”

König nodded. “Sure.”

“Great. How ‘bout you L.T.?”

“S’fine,” Ghost rumbled.

“Well then, it looks like we’re at an agreement,” Gaz said, smirking.

“Yeah, finally,” Roach grumbled.

“I don’ want to hear you complainin’ when you refused to help,” Gaz said, lightly glaring at Roach.

“Hey, I’m the one who just picked the movie, aren’t I?”

"Yeah, after a centuries worth of not helpin’.”

"Whatever, just play the movie you grump.”

Gaz grumbled, annoyance obvious from his muffled words, before he finally selected the movie and hit play.

The movie began with a dark, ominous soundtrack that filled the room, setting a perfect stage for tension. Shadows flitted across the screen, and an eerie stillness loomed over the characters in the film. König instantly locked his attention on the screen, grateful for the distraction, and for the most part he was fine. Until he wasn’t.

The first jump scare landed, and Soap shrieked louder than necessary, nearly sliding off the couch in a fit of laughter. Taken by surprise, König instantly tensed, his whole body going on full alert. If he’d had his gun or knife on him, he probably would’ve grabbed it. Gaz, on the other hand, burst into snickers, barely able to keep his popcorn in hand. Roach rolled his eyes, but a smile betrayed his amusement, and Ghost was far more stoic—sitting like a mountain, calm amidst the chaos. As if he was used to this, which König supposed he was. After that though, König couldn’t fully relax—his body, having been forced into fight or flight mode, wound up like it was waiting for someone to strike.

Moments later, the film’s antagonist crept up on one of the characters, and König felt a shiver run down his spine as he instinctively leaned closer to Ghost, who instantly tensed, eyeing Köing from the corner of his eye. Thankfully, he didn’t say anything. Soap, on the other hand, could not have the same said about him.

“See? Scared!” Soap whispered and elbowed König playfully, but his smile softened as he saw just how rigid König was (like he was waiting for someone to jump out and ambush him) and how he was slightly leaned into Ghost. He was well aware how horror films could affect some soldiers, forcing them into a false sense of survival mode. It used to happen to Ghost all the time. It took awhile for Soap to notice it though; the mask always seemed to get in his way of noticing things like that in the beginning, but now he was far better at reading Ghost. And König’s body language, granted more fidgety, was quite similar to Ghost’s.

“Hey,” Soap started, voice light. “You're safe".

König’s cheeks flushed slightly, embarrassed by Soap’s need to comfort him as though he were some child, but he managed to keep his composure. It wasn't Soap’s fault his body was fucked up. Still, he wanted to try and reassure the Sergeant somehow (and draw his attention away) without being completely dishonest with the man. Something told him even if he tried to lie and say he was fine, Soap wouldn’t believe it anyway.

“Perhaps this wasn’t the best choice of film,” König muttered, trying to keep his voice from giving away his discomfort. “But I’ll be fine.”

Soap stared at König for a moment, the same way he always did that put the Austrian on edge—if only a little bit—for a solid minute or so. He seemed to be contemplating something before finally letting out a soft breath of air, a sign that König hoped meant his strategy had worked. “As long as you're sure,” Soap relented.

König nodded. “Ja, I am sure.” And, just to be safe, he elbowed Soap playfully, giving him a small smile. “If there's anyone you should be worried about, it is yourself. I heard your scream earlier.”

Soap stared at König, eyes wide, as he sputtered quietly. It was a mix of trying to deny König and bafflement. It made König slightly relax, enjoying seeing the Sergeant at a loss for words for once.

“That's not—I—did you just—”

“Breathe, Johnny,” Ghost spoke, causing König to tense all over again. He’d somehow managed to forget Ghost was even there. Or the fact he was leaning on said man. Which was something he should quickly stop doing.

“But L.T.! He just made a joke!” Soap whisper-shouted, his voice coming across as a whine.

“Drop it, Sergeant. Just watch the film.”

Soap groaned. “Fine, ya spoilsport,” he mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back into the couch cushions. He turned his attention back to the movie quickly after. It was always fascinating how easily Ghost could get Soap to listen. But along with his fascination, König let out a silent breath, grateful for Ghost’s intervenience. It was strange to be grateful for something the lieutenant did (since most of his actions were hostile) but it was a welcomed change. Strange but welcomed.

For the next hour or so, the rec room was filled with Gaz, Roach, or Soap screeching at certain points in the movie, each teasing each other, which would more often than not result in a bikerfest that Ghost, or on occasion, Roach, would settle.

König stayed quiet throughout it all, watching with silent amusement. He’d occasionally catch Soap glancing at him (most likely checking on how he was) and each time he made sure to portray himself as fine to the Scotsman. He’s already worried Soap enough over his stay here at the 141; he didn’t need to add more over a movie.

Eventually the credits rolled and the movie came to an end. That's when König realized he’d never stopped leaning on Ghost. The lack of the movie and Sergeant bickering finally allowed him to notice, and he didn’t know what to do. He was locked at a standstill with himself. On one hand, he didn't want to move and draw attention to the fact he had been leaning on Ghost; on the other hand, he didn’t want Ghost to get annoyed with him for not moving. It was a miracle already that Ghost hadn’t pushed him off during the duration of the movie.

König wasn’t allowed to dwell on what to do for very long though, because his thoughts were quickly interrupted by Roach saying, “Wow, you three look so comfy. You sure we watched th’ same movie? I figured you’d all be like this lug over ere’ all wound up an’ shakin’ in your boots,” gesturing to Gaz.

That's when König noticed the other body weight on his side. Somewhere along the way, Soap had leaned into 𝘩𝘪𝘮. How he missed that, he couldn't even begin to understand.

“I am not shakin’ in my boots," Gaz protested.

“You are.” Soap shot back, grinning.

“Tha’ is not true!”

“Oh, really? You’re tellin’ me you're gonna be able t’go to bed t’night without any problems?”

“...Yes.”

“You hesitated.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Shuddap!”

Soap chuckled. “It’s a'right, Gaz. I’ll make sure to tell Price you need ‘im to tuck you into bed tonight and to bring some warm milk and cookies.”

“That’s it, you little shit, get over ere’,” Gaz said, standing up and making his way over to Soap. Soap laughed and quickly sprung up off the couch—providing König the perfect chance to sit up and scooch away from Ghost—and threw his popcorn bucket at Gaz.

“Maybe I’ll even tell ‘im to sing you a lullaby,” Soap continued teasing, dodging his popcorn bucket that was thrown back at him.

“The second I get a hold of you, MacTavish, I’m going to strangle you,” Gaz warned as he chased Soap around. Soap laughed, his laughter mixing with Roach's, who’d been laughing since the milk and cookies comment. König watched amusedly, his earlier dilemma temporarily forgotten about.

He never did find out why Ghost didn’t push him off that night. And he never brought up the situation after either, choosing to accept it would forever be a mystery rather than trying to search for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He treated it just like he had everything else the lieutenant’s done lately. He didn’t realize it would be the beginning of not only more of Ghost’s weird behaviors but Soap’s as well.

-Tᕼᖇᗴᗴ ᗪᗩYՏ ᒪᗴᖴT ᑌᑎTIᒪ ᗰᗴᗴT ᑌᑭ-

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König stood in the dimly lit common room, eyes staring at the working coffee machine. It was early morning, and the sun just peeked over the horizon—a truly beautiful sight. The base was quiet at this hour, with most soldiers still fast asleep, just as König liked it.

As he leaned against the counter, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that things had shifted within 141’s base—particularly with Soap and Ghost. It had started rather suddenly, with König observing how they seemed to gravitate toward him with an odd frequency ever since that movie night three days ago.

The first incident happened two days ago during a briefing Price had him sit in on. It was for an upcoming mission in a week—the first one since his injury he’d be allowed to join. He was more than eager to get back on the field and return to his assigned mission; he needed to make up for all the failures he’s had with strengthening 141’s bond with KorTac. So far, he’s done nothing but cause problems.

As Price laid out the next mission, Soap had taken the seat next to König—not unusual—practically leaning against him as he listened. What was strange was the unusually animated grin plastered across the Sergeant’s face and his overall proximity. Whenever König would turn his head to listen to whatever Soap was whisper-commenting to him, Soap would tilt his head unnecessarily close—closer than he ever has before.

The close proximity was certainly unusual, but not the only thing that caught his attention; there were also small gestures that sent a curious tingle through him. It wasn’t just Soap’s usual teasing flirtation; it felt…like comfort, almost real, and König found himself inexplicably pleased. He hated it. But deep down, he knew that was a lie. He couldn’t hate Soap even if he tried. It just hurt caring about someone you couldn’t have, he supposed.

Then there was the moment right after the briefing when König went to leave. Ghost, who usually preferred his own space, had unexpectedly followed him.

“You got your clearance from medical sorted?” he drawled, walking up to him with an easy stance. It was casual—almost too casual. The way Ghost’s eyes studied König, as though he were staring down prey he managed to trap in a corner, sent a shiver of intrigue and danger down König’s spine.

“I’m handling it,” König replied, trying to maintain his composure despite the stirring restlessness in his chest. Ghost shouldn’t be talking to him. He should be glaring. Why was he being so 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 lately? It wasn’t natural.

“Tha’s not what I asked.” Ghost grumbled, his voice low, and for a second, he moved closer, forcing König to instinctively push himself against the hall's wall to keep some distance. “I asked if you were cleared, not ‘handling it’.”

The moment felt charged, but not in the usual way their interactions were. It didn’t feel like a hostile standoff; if anything, it felt like Ghost cared. As if he were curious about his health and checking in the only way he knew how—by demanding an answer. Before König could dwell on it or give an answer, Gaz and Roach came out of the briefing room, seemingly breaking the small bubble that had formed around the two lieutenants. By the time König glanced back to where Ghost had been, he’d already moved down the hall, pretending like he’d never stopped and cornered the Austrian, his demeanor shifting perfectly from mildly relaxed to impassive in an instant.

König couldn’t do anything but silently watch as Ghost walked away.

The second incident happened later that same day. König found himself in the mess hall, finishing a late-night meal as usual. He normally ate as late as possible to avoid any and all soldiers. The only time he didn't was when he was invited by the Sergeants' to eat with them. Or when the team had a briefing scheduled. But to his surprise, he didn’t end up being alone; Soap and Ghost came in a few minutes after him and settled at his table. There wasn’t much said from Ghost, but what he lacked in conversation Soap made up for.

“König! Fancy seeing you ere’,” Soap said with a big grin, setting down his tray of food. He took the seat next to König, with Ghost settling next to him. “I was sure I was gon’ be the only one who missed dinner, so I dragged this lug along with me. Turns out I didn’t need to after all.”

"Hello, Soap,” König greeted. He tried his best not to let his eyes linger on Ghost for too long. “How come you missed dinner?” he asked, trying to keep the Sergeant talking. He feared if he didn't, the awkwardness of the entire situation would eat him alive.

Soap groaned. “The rooks seemed to have forgotten all their trainin’, I swear. It was like all day I was havin’ to correct or write them up on somethin’. It was bloody annoying.”

“And that made you miss dinner?”

Soap chuckled. “Pretty much, yeah. I think the one thing I did enjoy bout’ that was they missed theirs too.”

König nodded his understanding. He did not miss training recruits. The one good thing about being lent out to other bases so frequently was that most of the time he wouldn’t be assigned any rookies to train—being too busy fulfilling his assigned role and too unreliable to train others. Most didn’t find it wise to assign the temporary soldier under their command to rookies they would have to assign to others when said soldier left after all. Too much paperwork.

“I’m sorry you had a rough day,” König said sympathetically. It must’ve been pretty rough for Soap to be glad his rookies missed their own dinner. He didn’t really seem like the ‘you fail, you don’t eat’ type of superior after all.

Soap waved König off. “Nah, it wasn’t tha bad. Just a bit annoying is all.”

Ghost scoffed. “Right, because that’s why you spent a solid ten minutes complain’ to me about how shit your day was like a madman,” he countered, his voice its usual low bass rumble accompanied by a teasing edge.

Soap gasped, a look of mock betrayal settling across his face. "L.T., how could you? Outin’ me in front of König like tha? Y'know, I’m trying to keep up a positive rep.”

“I think König ere’ should know just how much of a brat you are,” Ghost shot back.

Soap turned to König. “Don’ listen to ‘im König; it's all lies, I swear.”

König hesitated to respond. He was more focused on how lighthearted and casual Soap and Ghost seemed to act with one another. He knew they were close; that was obvious, but he’d never really seen it firsthand before. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d always wondered what their relationship looked like, but every time he failed to see how it could possibly function. They were so different, both in rank and personality. It was astonishing to see how well they balanced one another out. Ghost’s naturally quiet presence seemed to mellow down Soap’s over-the-top personality, and Soap’s enthusiastic energy seemed to bring out a more…𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘧𝘶𝘭 side to Ghost. It seemed to soften the lieutenant, if only a little bit.

“It's ok, Soap, I believe you,” König finally managed to say after a moment. It was a lie, of course. He knew Soap wasn’t the completely innocent golden retriever he made himself out to be; he had a mischievous streak that König’s seen more than once. However, the way his agreement brought a smile to the Sergeant's face was worth him coming across as daft.

“Ha!” Soap cheered, turning to face Ghost, his expression smug. “Hear tha? He believes me.”

“Tha’s only because he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings, Johnny,” Ghost countered.

After that, König let himself fall into the background, becoming a somewhat captive audience, mostly enjoying the show. But something about the way Soap and Ghost exchanged looks with him or the way their hands danced in and out of his space felt intentional. Soap would every so often reach to grab a fry off his plate while talking, their fingers brushing lightly, and with each brush, he’d shoot König a smile. Meanwhile, Ghost had taken to resting his foot near König's chair, a move that seemed innocuous yet felt heavy with an unspoken meaning. It was both nerve-wracking and yet thrilling knowing the lieutenant was a small shift of his foot away.

As Soap burst into laughter over one of Ghost’s quips, he turned and casually leaned against König, using it as an opportunity to steal a sip out of König’s coffee mug. His eyebrows furrowed before he set it down. “You got any milk in this, König?” he teased, his voice playful.

König stared at Soap for a moment. The Sergeant was always flirty with subtle gestures—an arm brushing against his, fingers lingering just a moment too long; it wasn’t like this was the first time Soap had taken the liberty of invading his personal space like that (he was that way with everyone) and this was for sure one of those moments, only it felt 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭. Like it wasn’t a tease. Which was absurd. Ghost was right there watching both of them; there was no way Soap would ever purposely flirt and 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 it when Ghost was around. He wouldn’t ever mean it, period. König was just…𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 too much.

That was it.

“Black’s good enough for me,” König replied, taking the mug back, but not before adjusting his body to account for the smaller man leaning against him. It was just his imagination. There was no reason to act any differently than he normally would about Soap being in his personal space while under the scrutiny of Ghost’s gaze, even if he suddenly felt the urge to push Soap off—if only to get rid of the tingling warmth running through him wherever the Sergeant touched.

Ghost hummed. “A man with good taste,” he acknowledged.

“Aye, you could say tha’ again,” Soap agreed, leaning further into König.

Something about the way they talked put König on edge. He couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something. It was like they were talking about a completely different topic, but he couldn’t for the life of him guess what it was.

There were plenty more smaller incidents after that. Each one confusing in their own way. König didn’t know what to think about it all. He thought it was bad when it was just Ghost being weird, but now he wished it was only Ghost being unusual. That would be better than both Soap and Ghost, by far.

He couldn’t help as his mind was drawn back to the note. Maybe he should meet up with Ghost? The note had said Ghost would give him answers, and answers were what he desperately longed for at the end of the day.

As König continued to stare blankly at the coffee pot in front of him, his mind racing, a soft shuffle behind him broke his concentration. He slightly turned to see what it was.

“Hey, König,” Gaz’s voice lilted through the air, tinged with a lightheartedness that made König raise an eyebrow. The dark-skinned man sauntered in—his hair tussled and a grin plastered on his face. König turned to face him fully, bracing himself for whatever antics were about to unfold. He spared a quick glance at the clock and internally sighed—it was far too early for Gaz to be rising. Which meant this was likely a deliberate encounter. Just his luck.

"Need your help with somethin’," Gaz continued, leaning slightly over the counter.

He knew it.

König sighed lightly, intrigued as much as he was wary. "And what would that be?"

“I need a cup o’ coffee,” Gaz answered without a moment's pause. König blinked. Was Gaz serious? He stared at the Brit for a moment, taking in every detail he could, but ultimately couldn’t find any signs that the Sergeant was teasing him.

König nodded. “Okay,” he said and grabbed a mug, filling it up. Somewhere during his recounting of the last couple of days the coffee pot had finished its brew.

König handed the mug over to Gaz, who took it graciously and instantly began to take small sips from it. Gaz sighed contently. “Now tha’ hits the spot,” he commented and smiled at König. “Thanks, mate.”

“No problem,” König said, and then, even though he was sure to regret it, asked, “Why are you awake so early?”

Gaz chuckled. “No special reason. Just woke up an’ couldn’t get back to sleep is all. How bout’ you?”

“The same reason as you,” König lied. He didn’t need Gaz knowing he always woke up way before what was necessary. Some things he just didn’t feel the need to share.

Gaz hummed, his eyebrows slightly scrunching. “Tha’s a shame. Does it have anythin’ to do with what’s been bothering you the last couple o’ weeks?”

König blinked. “What?”

Gaz chuckled. “Don’ get me wrong, König. You don’ ave’ta tell me nothin’ you don’ want to; it's just... I’ve noticed you’ve been a bit tense these last couple o’ days. Specifically when Soap or Ghost are around. Is there something you’d like to talk about? Did something happen between you three?”

König took a deep breath before sighing. This whole thing must be affecting him worse than he thought it was if Gaz was noticing a shift in his behavior. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask his advice?

“There is something that’s been confusing me, yes,” König admitted, choosing his words carefully.

Gaz smiled. He may have lied earlier when he said he only came down there because he couldn’t sleep. See, the thing was, ever since that movie night he’d noticed a shift with Ghost and Soap involving König, but when he went to ask Soap what the bloody hell was going on, Soap, the stubborn bastard, wouldn’t say shit. He knew asking Ghost wouldn’t get him any answers, and Roach was just as clueless as him. That left one person who could give him an answer: König.

Now, don’t get him wrong. He wasn’t only doing this to satisfy his own curiosity; he had noticed König being more on edge as of late, and he wanted to make sure König was okay just as much as he wanted to get answers.

“And what would tha’ be?” Gaz asked, keeping his voice light. He didn’t want to seem pushy. If König decided he didn’t want to tell him, he’d drop it.

“There is a note,” König continued.

“A note?”

“Yes,” König confirmed. There was more beyond the note, but when he stopped to think about everything, Soap started acting strange after the note, and that was when Ghost started acting even stranger. Perhaps if he made a decision on what to do—show up and spar, or not show up and possibly piss off Ghost—he'd find a solution to all the weirdness as of late. He was grasping at straws; he knew that. But he couldn’t exactly bring himself to call out Soap or Ghost for their strange behaviors. Not directly anyway. But if Ghost was offering to answer his questions, then maybe that was his solution to all his problems.

“Okay,” Gaz’s voice interrupted König’s thoughts as he leaned casually against the counter. “What’s this note about?”

“Ghost gave it to me. It said to meet him in five days to spar, but I do not understand why he wants to spar with me,” König explained. He didn’t need to tell Gaz everything about the note. Just enough to help him decide.

Gaz hummed, his eyebrows scrunching in concentration as he thought about what König said. “Ghost probably just wants t’see what you’ve got,” he replied, taking a sip from his coffee. “You’ve been outta commission for a while—which isn’t your fault, by the way—but it would make the most sense. He’s probably testin’ ya, y'know? Seeing if you’re ready for the upcomin’ mission or somethin’.”

König’s brow furrowed. “A test?”

“Yeah! He’s probably betting on you if the way he’s been nicer to ya is anythin’ to go on,” Gaz said, folding his arms. “It’s a chance for you to prove yourself. Besides, he wouldn’t challenge you if he didn’t think you could handle it.” He hoped.

Leaning back, König mulled over the thought. An opportunity to prove himself seemed likely. After all, Ghost has said before that he wouldn’t let him out on the field unless Ghost knew he was a hundred percent. Besides, if he showed up to the sparring match, then maybe he could get Ghost to explain himself. The only real issue was the sparring part of the note. The getting answers part was like a dream come true.

“You may be right,” König relented. “Danke, Gaz.”

Gaz smiled. “No problem, König. I’m always ere’ if ya need me.”

-Oᑎᗴ ᗪᗩY ᒪᗴᖴT ᑌᑎTIᒪ ᗰᗴᗴT ᑌᑭ-

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When Soap had agreed to let Ghost lead their pace on how they would confront König about possibly joining them (whether that was just for a one-night stand or more was still to be known. After all, he and Ghost figured it would be best to see if König even felt the same before jumping into anything drastic. If König did, then they would discuss everyone's feelings on the matter, and if that included something long-term) Soap had expected Ghost to need a little bit of time to improve his relationship with König before jumping right in. For him to keep things simple when it came to the Austrian—a discreet nod or a casual compliment here and there—considering they didn’t exactly start on fantastic terms. But instead, Ghost had gone full tilt and invited the Austrian to a sparring match, through a 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦 out of the blue. Deciding that he would bring up the discussion after their little match, as if that made any sense.

Six days. That’s all the time that passed after Soap and Ghost discussed their interest in König. Before that, Ghost had just barely started to form a semi-normal relationship with the Austrian. So to say Soap hadn't understood Ghost's approach was an understatement. After all, who just up and decides it would be a good idea to confront someone about entering a relationship who you've barely been friendly with for more than a couple weeks? Soap knew he would have to step in and help if there was any chance of this actually working. Luckily for Ghost, he was skilled at getting closed-off masked giants to fall for him.

So, in the next four days that followed, leading up to today’s sparring match, Soap had helped give Ghost subtle hints on when he should confront König or how to go about it with the occasional flirting from himself with the Austrian. To be honest, he would’ve liked to take things much slower than they had, but Ghost had sadly put them on a time frame. One that wasn’t very long.

All in all, he could only hope König showed up today and that he took Ghost’s invitation well. If not, at the very least, he hoped he would be able to salvage whatever pieces of friendship would still remain with König. He didn’t want to lose the Austrian completely after all. However, he wouldn’t lie and say he hadn’t seen signs of König noticing his flirting long before Ghost began his own, or that he didn’t notice there being some suggestion of König being receptive. But even with that knowledge, he couldn't say how tonight would go for sure.

Yet somewhere in the back of Soap's mind, he couldn’t help but hope that perhaps this would blossom into something more than just a discussion. König—despite his awkwardness and reputation—had a hidden depth that made him worth knowing and certainly worth chasing after.

Whatever they were building, however precarious, Soap wanted to invest in it. That he was sure of.

The sound of the gym doors being pushed open caught Soap’s attention, causing him to turn and look to see who may have entered. He couldn’t help the smile that graced his face as he saw who it was.

König.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As König entered the training area, he was surprised to see Soap stretching by the wall. He had thought only Ghost would be here today, with the exception of other random soldiers getting their own workouts in. It was slightly worrying. Could this have been a mistake? Should he have not shown up? Was it just a coincidence? Before he could question why Soap was there further or if he shouldn’t have shown up, the Sergeant turned, his face breaking into that familiar grin, a burst of energy that seemed to light up the room as he noticed him.

“König!” Soap called. He quickly stood and ran over to greet the Austrian. “You made it! Thought you might bail on us for a second there,” he teased and clapped König on the shoulder, a gesture meant to be reassuring but felt like a gentle shove towards impending doom. Soap’s playful demeanor usually managed to ease König’s nerves, if only slightly; however, today he felt it was difficult to hold onto that sense of calm under the circumstances.

“Hello, Soap,” he replied, slightly picking at the skin around his nails. He could feel the weight of Soap’s gaze—a mixture of encouragement and something else, turning his insides. He scanned the room to take his mind off of that gaze, his eyes quickly falling onto his target.

Ghost was suited up in what König assumed was his workout gear—a pair of black sweatpants and a loose tank top that accentuated his muscular frame. The mask obscured most of his features, yet his ever-intimidating presence still radiated confidence. König couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability that washed over him as he began making his way over to Ghost.

König wanted to just jump right in and begin asking why Ghost had been so strange lately—why both he and Soap have been. But he found it difficult to muster the words. Besides, looking at Ghost, it didn’t seem like now was the time to be asking questions. It appeared he’d have to wait until after their sparring match, or maybe just forget the whole asking questions part.

“Ready?” Ghost asked, his voice low and gravelly as he led König onto what would be their battle ground—König far too aware of the soldiers slowly gathering around them. He couldn’t help but feel on edge. And Ghost’s words didn’t exactly help; the man had an uncanny way of making seemingly casual words feel charged.

König nodded, even though uncertainty ebbed at him. The faster he got this over with, the better.

König took a deep breath, trying to shake off his mounting anxiety before stepping into the makeshift ring. The space felt suffocating. The skull mask Ghost wore didn’t help to ease his nerves either, making him feel even more self-conscious. He was almost certain that Ghost was aware of his unease, those piercing eyes betraying a glint of palpable amusement.

Gott, why did he agree to this?

Before König knew it, they were beginning, Ghost moving like a phantom. The brief moment of hesitation he saw in König was all the opening Ghost needed. With precision and grace, he launched into a series of calculated strikes that König struggled to counter—he was still a bit rusty from spending weeks laying in bed as he recovered, okay?

He tried to focus on his training, but nothing could quite prepare him for the speed and agility that Ghost possessed.

The two circled each other in the ring, König’s size a stark contrast against Ghost's fluid movements. Every strike Ghost threw forward was expertly dodged or met with König's muscle, yet Ghost seemed to have a seemingly endless reservoir of energy. Something König was severely lacking in with his current state. He could still feel the lingering pull of where his stitches had been despite them being out for days.

As König struggled to keep up, Ghost seemed to gain more and more of an advantage. Ghost’s attacks were no game; they were precise, calculated, and forced König to either dodge or parry.

“C’mon, König! You’re doing great!” Soap encouraged from the sidelines, but König felt anything but great as he found himself largely on the defensive.

After a few more exchanges, König found himself grappling for control, his opponent slipping effortlessly through his defenses. He felt the weight of his self-doubt pressing against his chest, making it harder to breathe as he mentally berated himself for not being able to take charge. He should be able to at least land one good hit on Ghost, but instead all he’d managed to do was fend off the lieutenant.

Suddenly, Ghost sprang forward, a flurry of strikes crashing against König’s guard. The sound of fists hitting muscle echoed harshly around the gym as Ghost pulled a feint, then slid his foot out to trip König off balance. The world tilted, and before he could regain his footing, Ghost was upon him. With a swift motion, he grabbed König, pinning him against the mat with a thud that knocked the breath from his lungs.

For a moment, König lay there, gasping, unmoored, and disoriented.

“Not bad, König,” Ghost said, his voice low, almost an afterthought as he leaned closer. “But you still need to focus more on your movements.”

König, still trying to catch his breath, nodded absently. “Good match,” he croaked. “You’re…” his voice trailed off, struggling to find the right words, “very skilled.”

Ghost hummed his acknowledgment, glancing over to Soap, who seemed to be watching them both with a knowing smirk. The Sergeant gave a small nod of his head, his eyes filled with…worry? König couldn’t see Soap very well from where his face was pinned, but he was sure the Scott seemed nervous about something. What? He didn’t know. But it did serve to quicken his own heart rate.

Ghost shifted slightly, and in that moment, the air thickened. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a near whisper, his breath mixing with the slight sheen of sweat on the back of König’s neck.

“You know, Soap an’ I have been talking bout' you.” Ghost murmured, his voice carrying a weight that made König's nerves electrify. “If you’re interested, come to our room tonight. We’d like to talk.”

The world around König fell silent, a void where time froze, his mind swirling at the revelation. Ghost’s intense gaze bore into him, searching for a response that König could scarcely form. He didn’t know how to process the confession—had Soap and Ghost truly been interested in him like that? Was that why Ghost had been acting strange? Was that why the Sergeant’s flirts began to feel more real? Was he even interperating those words correctly?

“I…” König hesitated, the words lost in the haze of his shock.

“Think about it,” Ghost said, lifting his weight, allowing König the space to breathe as the implications of what was said hung heavily in the air. “You’ve got time.”

König lay on the mat, feeling the weight of a hundred thoughts crashing over him. He watched as Ghost stepped away, his imposing figure moving with purpose. He heard Soap’s voice ringing faintly in the background, drowned out by the overwhelming thrum of his heartbeat. He couldn’t make out what Soap had said, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

As König finally pushed himself up after a minute or so, noticing Ghost and Soap were gone, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just been left alone in the dark, with no one to guide him. In one breathless exchange, Ghost had shattered his sense of normalcy and thrust him into a bewildering new dynamic—confused but undeniably curious about where it could lead.

Yet there was one fact that made König hesitate. A truth he’s known since he was a teen: no one could ever truly care for him, let alone possibly love him. He wasn’t built for love. He never would be. This all had to be some prank, some way of fucking with him. It was sick to think, but it was the only rational response he could come up with. But even that didn’t sit right. Sure, he knew he was just a temporary fixation for Soap, that he’d be forgotten about the moment he left, but the Sergeant wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t lie to someone like that—not ever. Even Ghost didn’t seem like the type.

But then 𝘸𝘩𝘺.

Why would Ghost say that? There was no way Ghost could possibly mean what he thought he meant. It was just a misunderstanding. One König would be sure to clear up tonight.

With a grunt, König stood, gathering his breath, blood alight with uncertainty. He was taken off guard to see all the soldiers still surrounding him, having forgotten they were even spectating. He felt a flush spread throughout his face as he quickly made his exit—wanting nothing more than to escape all their whispers and stares.

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“𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵,” the lieutenant's words rang through König’s head. There was a world where, in König’s mind, even though he knew that a man with no sense of reality couldn’t make a more ridiculous assumption, the lieutenant and Sergeant’s invitation was purely to degrade him. To make certain he was reminded that to them he was a joke, a soldier who was only temporary.

But, even with the slim thought of that being true, it was enough for König to magnify it until it clouded his whole brain. There was just no way Ghost had meant what he thought. There was no way the man who seemed to wish his demise at every waking moment loved him.

Atop of that, what would he do even if Soap and Ghost did love him? König couldn’t even allow himself to accept it, let alone be able to form a proper response. And what would he do if both of them simply wanted one night, and for that to be the end of that?

In all honesty, that outcome made the most sense. He was just being upgraded as their little plaything, used as a way to spice up their private life for a night. But could he fulfill that role? He wasn’t made for love. But then again, a one-night stand didn’t necessarily entail feelings, let alone love. He could serve them in the way they wanted without fucking up; surely he could do them that.

However, as König thought more about it, his selfishness was fueled by how he realized that, even though it was most likely going to be one night, he wanted the sergeant and the lieutenant more than he should ever. That he wanted more. He’s wanted more since he started to crave Soap’s smile, and though he was still very uncertain about how he felt about Ghost, he couldn’t help but want more of him too. To have more time to understand Ghost and figure out his own feelings about the Brit.

A mess. That’s all there was to him: a mess.

Walking back to his room didn’t help clear his thoughts like he had hoped; instead, it only worsened them. He didn’t know what would happen tonight for sure; he didn’t even know how he would feel about it, but he did know whatever the outcome, it would be a downward spiral for him.

“Ah, König, there ya are, lad,” a voice called, drawing König’s attention out from within his scrambled mind. His eyes widened as he realized just who stood before him.

Price.

“I’ve been searchin’ for ya,” Price continued.

“Sir,” König said, immediately straightening, his voice firm but slightly filled with hesitance. This couldn’t be good. There was no way Price would go out of his way like this if what he was about to say was good. What did he do this time? “What is it you need?”

Price sighed, bringing a hand to rub at his forehead. “There's no way to say this tha’ would make this any easier. So I’ll just cut to the chase. I’ve just been informed tha’ you’ll be shipped back to KorTac early,” Price said, crossing his arms. "Interference in operations. Higher-ups want a more... immediate response to some intelligence they've gathered. The timeline’s tighter than we hoped.”

König’s heart sank. He had known his time with the team would be temporary, the nature of military life being what it was, but he had thought he still had time. “And what about... what about my position here, sir?” he asked. It was a stupid question, one he knew the answer to, but he had to hear it for himself.

“KorTac will be assigning someone new to take your place by the end of the day,” Price replied, studying him closely. “It’s nothin’ to worry bout’, you do your job well. But I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

“Dankeschön for letting me know, sir,” König said, though the words felt hollow. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the echo of Ghost’s strange admission and now he was forced to deal with the abrupt upheaval of his stay at the 141. He never seemed to catch a break. But what did it matter? He bit the inside of his cheek, tossing aside his own feelings. It was just like he’d always known from the beginning: he was a soldier who could always be replaced—who 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 be replaced. It was always just a matter of when.

Perhaps Soap and Ghost would take an interest in this new arrival and offer them the same thing they offered him tonight. It was an ugly thought, one that made something deep inside him twist uncomfortably, but he quickly shoved that feeling aside. Now wasn’t the time for such trivial things.

Price must have noticed König’s sudden shift in demeanor because he continued, saying, “Listen, König. You’ve done remarkable work ere’. Don’ let this shadow your success. Whether you accept it or not, the lads appreciate you; don’t discount it.”

König felt a spark of annoyance course through him at Price's words. He didn’t need Price's lies filled with pity. He knew how this worked. To Price and everyone else at T.F. 141, he was a pawn, one who had lost its use. They held no true sentiment for him. In a week they would forget him and be focused on their new arrival; there was no changing that.

“Someone’s comin’ to take yer place, but tha’ doesn’t change how we see you,” Price continued. “It's important to know your worth ere’, not just on the battlefield but off it.”

König exhaled deeply, the weight of this whole entire interaction settling on his shoulders. “Dankeschön, captain. I’ll do my best.”

“Good lad,” Price said, turning to leave. “And don’ be a stranger while you're back at KorTac. You know we’d all think twice before we let you go for good.”

König nodded but as he watched Price walk away, he felt hollow. A strange feeling he wasn’t used to. He’s been told this speech a thousand times; there was no reason to feel this way. If anything, he should be grateful. Price’s interruption stopped him from doing something he would regret. He knew he had started to get too close to 141’s soldiers, and what he’d almost done tonight (letting himself believe he could have something, even if it was the bare minimum, with Soap and Ghost) was a grave mistake. One Price saved him from making. So why did bother him so much?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

König walked around his room, his duffle bag hanging loosely on his shoulder. He hadn't had too much to pack, mostly some extra gear and a very small number of clothes. He hadn't even had any items to decorate his space with that he had to repack. Well, there were a few books but other than that he hadn't brought anything with him. He let his hand glide over the small desk in his room, picking up a small coating of dust on his index finger. He stared at it for a moment before he wiped his hand off on his pants. This room, despite having spent so much time in it, made him feel nothing. One quick glance around the room, making sure nothing of importance was left behind, and he was sure he’d gathered everything he'd brought with him.

This certainly wasn’t what he'd been expecting. He'd thought he'd feel something. Perhaps gratitude to finally be going back to KorTac, being granted the return of the familiarity of his base, but not this—the lack of emotion. Or maybe he was feeling something. It was hard to tell. He had this hollow sensation within he couldn’t seem to get rid of; if anything, it just grew the longer he lingered here inside the walls of 141. He wanted it gone. He just didn't know what the formula to have that happen was. He wished he did.

König sighed and trudged his way towards the doorway. He paused, giving one last look to the room he'd never see again, and turned away. He had places to be and not a lot of time. Specifically Ghost and Soap’s room. He had already said his goodbyes to Gaz and Roach. He saved the hardest for last.

A few more steps, and he was there. König’s knuckles hit the door exactly three times before Ghost greeted him, his presence—for a split second—making König think he’d seen the reaper.

“Shocking,” the man in front of him commented. “Didn’t expect you to actually show.”

“Oh, so we’re lyin’ tonight?” a voice from inside the room said. Even though König couldn’t see him, he knew that it was Soap. No one could mistake that accent. A second later, and his hunch was confirmed—Soap coming to stand beside the lieutenant.

“Hey, big guy,” he said, a wide grin settling across his face. His grin was far too warm and welcoming as he peered at König, none the wiser to what was about to happen. König nearly turned around and walked away when his eyes locked onto that grin, screw being perceived as anything but a coward. As much as he hated it, he couldn’t bear the thought of being the reason for that smile to disappear.

“Hello, Soap,” König mumbled, his voice wavering far more easily than he would've liked it to.

“What’s with the bag?” Ghost asked, ever the observer. “Plannin’ to move in already? Or are you being sent on a mission?”

A reasonable question, at least, the second one was. König was fully geared up like the first day he arrived. Call him lazy but it seemed so much simplier to wear his gear than shove it all into a small duffel bag. Work smarter, not harder, as one would say. And a small part of him thought he might need the reassurance that the fact he was wearing a bullet proof vest and other padding brought him. What he was about to say was not going to end well, and no matter how much progress he might've made with Ghost, he was certain the Brit had a knife somewhere on his person and would be more than happy to use it.

“Nein, I…” König shifted the duffel bag so it rested more securely on his shoulder, his hand tightening around the strap. He bit the inside of his cheek, breathing in deeply.

𝘔𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘵, 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥?

Soap’s brows furrowed, concern and confusion written across his face. His body slightly tensed as he raked his eyes over König, as though he thought the Austrian was hurt. König couldn’t help the way his eyes started to burn. He really needed to start blinking more so they wouldn't dry out. Yes, that was the only reason he felt that familiar preasure building behind his eyes.

“König? Wha’s up? Is everthin' alr'ght?” Soap asked.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵. 𝘉𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘉𝘦 𝘢 𝙢𝙖𝙣.

“I am flying back to KorTac in a few minutes. I came to say goodbye.”

“What?” Soap breathed, the last remnants of his smile quickly twisting into a hardened frown.

“When was this decision made, König? I wasn't informed you would be leaving or have your contract terminated in the foreseeable future.” Ghost asked. His eyes were dark, piercing beneath his balaclava.

“A couple of hours ago.”

Ghost grabbed Soap’s shoulder to keep him from charging out of the room like a bull seeing a room full of red.

“Easy there Johnny. Don’t go doin' anythin' stupid. We don' need you gettin' suspended.”

“Don’ ya worry bout’ tha’, Si! I’m gaun straight up t' Price an' imma dare tha' weasly li--le bastard to suspend meh! Price won’ even ave’ his head by the time ah’m done wit him! Lemme at ihm! I'll—”

“Stop, this isn’t Price’s fault.” König said, voice steady and firm, as if he were on the field commanding a squad instead of facing down an angry Scotsman. It was just a one-night stand. Soap could still have fun with Ghost without him. There was no reason to be this upset over something so trivial as getting laid. “Bitte, I don’t want to cause any more problems, Soap,” he spoke again, this time lighter. He didn’t want Soap throwing away his career over something as silly as a possible one-night stand.

Soap stopped his struggle against Ghost’s hold and took a moment to stare at König. Before König knew it, Soap's eyes were dark, full of rage. “You wan’to leave, don’ cha!?” he shouted, stepping closer to König. “Tha’s why you're so fine wit all this! Why you won’ lemme stop it! I bet ya even asked Price if you coul' leave!”

“Johnny—”

“No! Let ‘im answer!”

König took a deep breath, turning his head to the side. He stared at the floor, counting each crevasse in the tiles. He couldn’t look Ghost and Soap in the eye. He was too much of a coward to face whatever he'd find within them.

𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴? 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤.

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴.

𝘈 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬.

𝘈 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧.

“I—I’d better, uh, go... yeah, um, yeah...Goodbye, Soap… Bye, uh, Ghost, sir…”

There wasn’t enough time to say everything he wanted to. There never would be. He’d never be able to say the words he wanted, to be able to find the courage.

König couldn’t tell them that he wanted them, and then up and vanish. How could that ever be fair to them? A quick parting would be best. Clean. Simple. Fast. No strings or feelings attatched. It was time to fade into the background like he was always destined, where he always wanted to be left, and let Ghost and Soap be 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 again. The perfect duo. It would be better for all of them to part and go their seperate ways, never to think about what had almost been ever again.

Ghost and Soap had been thriving before they ever met him and they would continue to do so without him. He was always too much of a risk anyway. It was 𝘚𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘳 this way. He’d been nothing but a problem since arriving, and it was only right he left. He constantly was a disgrace to everyone, his father, brother, mother, even KorTac's name and this was his retribution.

Before anyone could stop him and try to fill his head with lies or persuade him to try and fight to stay for their own selfish enjoyment, König fled, leaving Ghost and Soap standing in the hall without a second's glance. They would either forget him or hate him. Either way, König would be long gone. Free.

It was always going to end this way.

Chapter Text

The clatter of trays and consistent hum of conversation filled the air as Horangi entered the cafeteria with an annoying ache in his limbs, the weight of the day’s mission still hanging in the air around him. He’d just returned from a grueling reconnaissance mission in the dense jungles of west-central Africa, and after days of navigating treacherous terrain with nothing but rations to eat, to say he was craving a real meal was an understatement.

As he made his way to the food line, he caught snippets of conversation from nearby tables—familiar voices buzzing with anticipation and drawing his attention. There was always non-stop chatter in the cafeteria (that wasn’t uncommon), but this felt different somehow, like everyone was conspiring and he was left outside in the cold, long forgotten. Interest piqued and not one to ever miss out on gossip; he strained to hear more, picking up on two specific soldiers' voices.

“Hey, did you hear?” A familiar accent asked, lowered as if sharing a secret. It carried a gruff, scratchy tone that resembled a pirates. Horangi instantly knew who it was: Fender. That Hungarian accent could only belong to one man after all. “König’s coming back.”

Hutch leaned in, his eyebrows raised. “Get outta here, man, you serious?” he asked, his voice deep yet smooth with a slight rumble to it.

Horangi froze mid-step, the aroma of food drifting past him unnoticed. König? As in his giant of a best friend? The one man battering Ram? Mr. I’m anti-social—Horangi, save my social life before it's gone? That giant of an Austrian?

It had to be a false rumor; there were still two months left before König was due to return. Actually, if he wasn’t mistaken, König even had an additional three months added to his service over there. It didn’t make any sense; if anything, he should be coming back later than his initially planned return from his loan to T.F. 141. Yet despite that, Horangi couldn’t help the hope that bubbled up in his chest. It felt like forever ago since he’d last seen König; he couldn’t help but miss the mountain of a man. It just wasn’t the same without him.

“Hell yeah, I am,” Fender said. “I don’t know de specifics, but de rumors are flying. Apparently, de job vrapped up quicker than expected. Word is, he might ave’ made a significant score or a significant mistake,” he added with a laugh.

Hutch chuckled and leaned back in his chair, clearly relishing in the gossip. "Well, that ain’t surprising. Y’know how he is—always in the thick of things.”

“You could say that again.”

“Do you think he’ll be involved in the upcoming mission?” Hutch asked, unable to suppress his curiosity. When he really stopped to think about it, that was most likely why König was coming back earlier than scheduled. However, the possibility that 141 couldn’t handle the Austrians brutal (yet effective) nature on the field and off-putting demeanor could easily be a reason as well. It usually happened more often than not when König was on loan. The guy was pure terrifying after all. Not to mention pretty awkward.

Secretly, he hoped that was the reason. Knowing 141 couldn’t handle König while KorTac was able to definitely would make his year. It’d be one more thing they did better than those goody tooshoo idiots. But at the end of the day, it really was anyone's guess as to why König was coming back. All he did know was he had a craving to get more info on their rivals over at T.F. 141, and it wouldn't be sated until König returned. The higher-ups may be trying to establish an ‘alliance’ with SpecGru, but he knew the statistics of that actually working—they weren’t great. Therefore, the Austrian better have some good intel to share. Anything they could use on the 141 was crucial in the game of war. And he was planning on being the top scorer.

Then again, getting even a simple hello out of that man was difficult enough, so the probability of him willingly conversing with him was doubtful. Especially over something like gossip.

Shit.

“Of course. Vhen has Captain ever let any of us rest?” Fender answered, snapping Hutch out of his thoughts.

“True,” he agreed, deciding to worry about gaining the logistics later. He’d surely find some way—it’s what he’s best at, after all. “Sometimes I wonder if that man has a heart. He’s more ruthless than my momma when she’d find out that me and my brothers didn’t do our homework.”

“If you think he’s tough, you should be grateful you didn't have to endure my grandmother's kimchi recipe lesson. Now dat's endurance training.” Horangi joked as he approached the table, his tray now steaming with fresh food.

Hutch chuckled. “Nah, I think I'll pass on that one, man. Your grandma's kimchi recipe lesson sounds like more than I could handle. I think I’ll just stick to the captain's lessons, you feel me?"

“Wise choice.”

“Hey, Horangi,” Fender greeted. “You just getting back from your meesion?”

“Yeah, I just flew in a couple of minutes ago. What’s all this talk about König I’m hearing? Is he really coming back already?” Horangi asked, setting his tray down and taking a seat at the table. He pulled down his dark green neck gaiter and took a sip of his soup, letting out a small hum of contentment as he relished in the flavors. It really was good to eat something other than rations.

“That’s de word around base,” Fender said. “He’s supposed to be flying in tumorrow.”

Horangi hummed. “Is dat so?”

“I bet you’re excited for his return, huh?” Hutch chimed in, a smirk plastered across his face.

Horangi tilted his head slightly, his eyebrow raising. “And what makes you say dat?”

“Oh, c’mon, man. We all know you're the only one he ever bothers to socialize with. Ya don’t gotta play coy with me.”

Horangi smirked. “It’s not my fault you’re annoying.”

“Aye, I know you did not just say that. I‘m the life of the party; thank you very much! My momma can testify.”

“Your mother’s not a very good defense.”

“Aye, don’t you dare go around disrespecting my momma. I’d like to see you take her on when she's holding a belt.”

Horangi chuckled, bringing up his hands in a mock surrender. “I meant no disrespect. I was simply implying mothers are naturally known to defend their kids and are biased.”

“Mmm, that's what I thought,” Hutch said, crossing his arms. He stared at Horangi for a moment, his face stern and body posture tense. Under normal circumstances, he’d come across as intimidating; after all, a man of his stature—stocky with a solid, muscular build and arms thick with corded muscle—would intimidate just about anyone. However, if you’ve known the man for years like Horangi did, you’d know when he’s truly offended and wants to twist your head off and when he’s playing. This was the latter. Proven when, after a few more seconds, his face broke into a smirk. “Man, I’m just messing with ya. I know you adore her.”

"Of course he does," Fender agreed. "He’d be a fool not to. That homemade pie she sends you could end varsz. You know, back in Hungary, ve had a saying about pies like that. They can bring even de toughest men to their knees."

Horangi hummed his agreement. “I can’t argue with you on dat. I—”

“Did you know? 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨 is coming back!” one soldier exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. His voice echoed across the cafeteria and cut off Horangi, drawing the three conversing soldiers' attention. It was one of the new recruits who had yet to meet König. It was understandable why he seemed excited—having nothing but rumors to go on to even know who König was, but the shouting was unnecessary.

“Yeah, I heard he’ll be flying in tomorrow,” another chimed in, nodding vigorously. “I can’t believe he’s back already. We thought he’d be gone for weeks!”

“What happened?” One of the other rookies inquired.

A good question.

“I don’t know the specifics, but the word around base is apparently there were ‘complications’ with his last mission,” the first soldier answered, his tone dripping with excitement.

“Complications?” One of them questioned, brows furrowing. “That sounds ominous. I hope he’s alright.”

“I hear he got into a scuffle on a mission. Got ruffed up pretty bad, from what I gathered,” another guy said, acting like a kid on Christmas who was telling his friends about the new toy he got. Horangi’s jaw clenched slightly at the thought, the idea of König in danger stirring a protective instinct within him. He respected the man deeply and considered him a close friend—a younger brother, even. Despite König being older than him.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯? Horangi silently questioned, fisting his spoon tightly. König could have died, and here they were talking about it like it was, what? A fun, scary story to be shared around a campfire?

“Yo,” Hutch said, drawing Horangi’s attention back to him, a look of understanding gracing his features. “Don’t stress man. König's a tough one; I’m sure he’s fine. I mean, y’know how rookies are, always making up stories.”

"Egzactly," Fender agreed. "Rookies are alvays talking out of their arse. König’s a tough bastard. There's nothing to vorry about.”

“Yeah…” Horangi said, keeping his eyes trained on the gossiping soldiers with a heavy glare. Thankfully, his sunglasses allowed him to freely do so without repercussions. To others, it looked like he was simply staring at a couple of rookies after a loud outburst instead of giving them a look most would say could kill. His fingers twitched around his spoon, almost like he wanted to throw it. “Right. Just bullshit.”

For their sake, it better be.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before he knew it, he found himself outside the base at the helipad, where many soldiers (mostly rookies) had begun to gather. He only had to wait five minutes before the chopper landed, but that short duration of time seemed to feel like an eternity to Horangi. All last night he'd hardly slept, constantly thinking about what sort of injury König could have gotten on the off chance the rookies were right. Had it been life-threatening? Was he still severely injured? Could it have permanently affected his day-to-day life? It was more likely that Fender and Hutch were right about them lying, but he still needed to be sure. So here he was, ready to greet the Austrian and assess him with his own eyes. Not that he wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t heard the rookies yesterday—there was no way he was going to miss welcoming the Austrian back.

He spotted König, his towering figure impressively carved even in his military gear, walking down the chopper's ramp. The intensity in König’s gaze sent a shudder up the spines of everyone in the crowd, all except for Horangi, that is. No matter how long it’s been since he last saw that lifeless stare, it’d never make him feel unnaturally exposed like it did to so many others. It strangely felt comforting, if he was being honest. As crazy as it may sound.

“Hey, König!” Horangi called, stepping forward through the crowd. The conversation around the helipad hushed as all eyes locked on to him. He could care less though—his only focus being the tall Austrian making his way towards KorTac’s base.

König scanned the crowd of soldiers at the sound of his voice, his usually fierce expression softening for just a moment under the hood.

“Horangi,” he acknowledged, a hint of surprise in his tone. “You are here.”

“Of course I am; where else would I be?” The Korean joked, and walked up to König. He gently punched his shoulder, a smile forming across his face, slightly visible through the thin layer of his neck gaiter. “I can’t say I wasn’t surprised to hear you were returning back to the base, though. Everything alright?” Horangi ventured, taking a moment to size up the larger man for any signs of damage. He looked fine from what he could tell. Maybe a little tired from the chopper ride, but healthy nonetheless.

A shadow flitted across König's face, his body tensing, but he quickly masked it with a blank stare and forcefully relaxed his posture. It made Horangi’s stomach twist uncomfortably, forcing him to assess König for injuries once again. He still looked solid, but the way his demeanor had shifted—even if it was only slightly—made a part of him think something was inexplicably 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. He hated it. It wasn’t right. König wasn't saying something, but what? He couldn’t say. Did he plan to find out? Yes.

“Ja, everything is fine,” König answered, his voice calm and steady. Completely devoid of any real emotion. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Horangi stared at König, taking in the way his shoulders were slightly more hunched than usual, the tired tilt to his friends eyes, and the way his hands had small crescents on their palms as though he’d been squeezing them shut for a long time. Horangi didn’t know what it was that could possibly be wrong with König, but it was obvious the Austrian was bothered by 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. However, it was clear he wouldn’t be talking about it. At least not here.

With a reluctant grin, Horangi’s demeanor shifted as he turned his gaze back to König’s eyes—the air around them thick with the knowledge that something wasn’t being said—that something was 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, but he had more than enough patience to wait for König to willingly talk to him. He’d wait days if he had to. Weeks even. It wasn’t like this was new to him. After all, he didn’t become the “only one he ever bothers to socialize with” from a lack of patience. No, he put in the effort to get to know König. Something that most hadn’t (and still don’t) bother to do.

He remembered the first time he'd stepped foot into KorTac. It was an endless blackhole of shifting loyalties and hidden agendas when he arrived (still was, if he was being honest). A place where camaraderie seemed like nothing more than an illusion, a mask worn for convenience. Trust was a rare gift, and each operative was a wary soldier in a battlefield where loyalty frequently stood on shaky ground. He could see it in the eyes of KorTac’s soldiers—each one keeping a careful distance from the others, ensuring they wouldn't be the first to fall victim to backstabbing or betrayal.

But there was one soldier who stood apart from the rest, isolated from all the others—König.

Horangi couldn't understand why they chose to isolate him so completely, even after noticing how effective and long the man had been part of KorTac. A full year, and yet he wore the mantle of distrust as comfortably as his tactical gear. In a place where trust in others was practically unheard of and ruthlessness regarded as an asset, König was an outlier—effective and brutal on the battlefield but utterly abandoned in the social sphere.

It wasn’t fair.

Which is why Horangi made it his mission to figure out who König was. And honestly, if it hadn’t been for the sad fact that KorTac lacked the necessary space to house its soldiers and placed him in the same room as König, he probably wouldn’t have made any progress in creating a bond with the Austrian.

It was astounding how a man of his stature could seemingly not exist outside the field or barracks. König was a very closed-off person (he still was), but that coupled with his ability to avoid others like they had the plague made it evident as to why no one knew who he really was outside of rumors. The man was basically a ghost.

It also didn’t help that every time Horangi asked about König, hoping for some insight into the man who spoke so little yet had been singled out by everyone so thoroughly it just seemed cruel, he was met with the same monotonous refrain: ‘Don’t bother with that one; it’s not worth it.’

It was frustrating, to say the least. However, each response only seemed to deepen the mystery, leaving Horangi more curious and hungry for answers. What had König done to warrant such hostility? Was it only because of his cold demeanor, or was there a darker reason as to why everyone seemed to dislike him so much? Or was it something as trivial as jealousy? It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard other soldiers gossiping about König’s height and his abilities to get the job done before, after all. Despite how mean they were about it at times, they always had one thing in common: they had an underlying admiration to their words.

The need for an answer to all his questions ultimately pushed him to keep trying and not give up on König.

Horangi observed what he could from the rare moments he saw König outside of their shared room from a distance—a tall shadow that was encased in walls of ice that had been handcrafted in an attempt to keep everyone away. While others reveled in banter or exchanged half-hearted pleasantries, König remained alone, never trying to join in.

It wasn’t that Horangi wanted to force his way into König's life or diminish the fortress that surrounded him; rather, he was drawn to the sheer human curiosity of understanding what lay underneath the man’s icy façade. After all, everyone had a story, and König’s seemed to be one no one bothered to hear. It became a personal mission of his to peel away the layers of ice surrounding König and discover who he really was.

His biggest obstacle somehow ended up not being König himself but Hiro “Oni” Watanabe. The man had iced out König almost instantly after seeing him arrive at KorTac from what he’d heard, and that man's opinion was highly valued among the soldiers of KorTac. There was even a time when Oni and König had a confrontation that everyone thought was sure to end in a fight, but König had basically said, ‘I wouldn’t trust me either’ and walked away when confronted with Oni’s accusation. The way he had said those words so easily, so emotionlessly, like he’d said them countless times before, left Horangi deeply unsettled. Much like he was right now, staring at how tense König was.

It caused him to observe König even closer than he had before. And that's when he realized who König really was. He’d been so absorbed in the few rumors he could gain about König and his daunting appearance that Horangi hadn’t actually looked past the hood and stories surrounding the Austrian. Instead, he allowed them to cloud his vision and obscure his observations.

He realized no matter how mean or rude soldiers were to König behind his back (despite how obvious it was that König knew about the taunts), he never fought back. Often just leaving quietly and without complaint, keeping his eyes down on the ground and hunching over to shrink within himself. He never acted hostile towards those who scorned him or used his rank against them either—as if he could never hate a single person in his life, not bullies, not the people who pushed him, and not the higher ups. Instead it seemed the hate most would put on others he put on himself. He was a kind soul. Albeit a bit awkward and strange, but kind hearted deep down. Someone worth knowing.

That was when Horangi’s mission changed. He had uncovered who König was, and now he had to get everyone else to see what he did. Sadly, that was easier said than done. No matter what he did, it seemed no one was willing to change how they saw König. At least, not until he saved Roze, Fender, and Askel’s lives on a mission. However, even then, it still took awhile before everyone seemed to fully accept König.

There are still a few who liked to mistreat König’s name when they knew the Austrian wasn’t around, but they never got off the hook. They never did now that he was a part of KorTac.

“That’s good to hear. I’m glad to have you back, Chingu."^[15] Horangi finally said and clasped König’s shoulder, an unspoken acknowledgement passing between them. “Come on, let’s grab a drink. I have too much to share with you since your departure to let it sit in silence.”

König couldn’t help but smile under the hood. It was good to see Horangi. Even better to see he hadn’t changed at all. He still wore his light green henley with the shaded green long sleeves and black cargo pants, along with his sunglasses and mask. And he still knew when to ask him questions and when to drop them. He even still had the same haircut—cropped halfway down the sides from the bottom with a little more length on the top, parted at the side for his short bangs that reached the middle of his forehead in a swoop to the right.

Quite frankly, König had been a little worried Horangi might’ve changed since he’d left to work alongside 141 with all that happened with Soap and Ghost’s sudden shifts in behaviors. It was stupid; he knew that, but the thought of that possibility had stressed him more than he’d like to admit. He missed the Korean more than he thought he would’ve and wouldn’t have known what to do if suddenly the man was completely different.

In all honesty, it was reassuring to see a friendly face—one that didn’t view him as a temporary fixation. At least, he hoped. It was a dangerous thing; he knew that. He shouldn’t allow himself to believe Horangi could care about him at all, but the Korean had always seemed to be too genuine for his own good. Naive. Eventually, he’d realize the mistake he made by caring for him, but until then, König would relish in the fact there was one man he could call a friend.

“Okay,” he conceded. Horangi’s responding smile was worth the upcoming hell that was the pub he was about to be dragged to.

“That's what I like to hear,” Horangi said and turned to start walking. He gestured for König to follow, and the Austrian did so without hesitance, grateful to finally get away from the prying eyes surrounding him and the Korean.

As they walked side by side, König felt the heavy weight of eyes piercing into him, a feeling he’d thought he’d long gotten rid of with his return to KorTac. He quickly glanced around, his eyes falling on a soldier decked out in all black, a goddamn tank compared to the other soldiers around him. It sent a shiver coursing up König’s spine.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦…?

The man wore a signature balaclava designed with black armor styling that had a sleek, tactical look that covered the entirety of his face. The material appeared to be robust, likely made from high-quality, durable fabric that ensured both safety and anonymity during operations. König couldn’t help the way his blood turned to ice, body freezing as he locked eyes with the soldier—his first thought being of Ghost. For a split second, he could’ve sworn that mask had a skull on it.

He watched as the soldier's body became tight—alert, as the man realized he’d been spotted. The world felt suspended for a moment, as if time hiccupped—a breath held in anticipation.

Two piercing blue eyes narrowed at him, recognition simmering below their analyzing surface. The recognition was undeniable—unnerving, igniting a flicker of something deep within König’s chest—an unsettling familiarity he couldn’t shake.

That stare—it haunted him. Those blue eyes mirrored the depths of Ghost’s—the same icy intensity, the same single-minded focus that had been etched into König’s very being during his time at T.F. 141.

He felt his heart rate quicken, pounding against his ribcage. And then, perhaps out of some twisted sense of defiance or disbelief, König lifted a hand casually to the side, palm up in a nonchalant half-shrug, as if blaming the man for being the one to stare first. It was an attitude steeped in sarcasm, an instinctive shield flung against the unexpected dread pooling in his gut. It wasn’t fair; he knew that, but that stare was too similar to Ghost’s. That build—the 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬. It was all too familiar.

He hated it.

It didn’t help that this man didn’t belong here either. As far as KorTac went, he was the only one who wore a mask beyond the field, with the exception of some soldiers like Horangi wearing neck gaiters to cover scarring.

The soldier drew himself to his full height (unsurprisingly still being shorter than König) and tilted his head to the side. He didn’t seem to take offense to König’s rudeness. In fact, he just seemed amused. It was strange, but relieving. In a way, it made a part of König relax—knowing that this really wasn’t Ghost he was staring at. The man was similar but undeniably different.

“I see you noticed our newest member,” Horangi said, snapping König out of his staring contest with the unknown masked man. He turned to Horangi, who was smirking at him. “His name is Nikto. He’s a Russian special ops soldier who was transferred here about a month after you left. He's a second lieutenant just like you, but other than that, I don't know too much about the guy. He’s more closed off than you, and that's saying something,” Horangi teased, elbowing König in the side playfully. He turned back to Nikto, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning some of his weight onto one leg. “He is effective, though. I’ll give him that.”

König hummed in acknowledgment, turning back towards Nikto. His hand clenched around his duffel bag strap as their eyes bore into one another's. He wanted to tell the man to stop staring but held his tongue. Unlike at T.F. 141, he wasn’t a soldier on loan. If he rubbed this guy the wrong way, he’d be stuck with the annoying tension that followed for the rest of his life, or at least until, on the very off chance, he got recruited somewhere else.

“Alright, you two can stare at each other later; we have drinks to get,” Horangi said, tugging on König’s sleeve. “I’ve waited long enough as it is. Make me wait any longer, and I’ll make sure to put pin needles in your bed. Maybe some spiders too.”

König couldn’t stop the chuckle that slipped past his lips. “Alright, alright, I am coming,” he said, beginning to follow the pushy Korean. He spared one last glance at the masked man staring holes into him before turning away permanently.

He’d worry about the newest member of his team later.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

König crouched behind a crumbling wall, his breath steady and deliberate as he scanned the dimly lit courtyard through the scope of his rifle, his senses overcome by the acrid scent of gunpowder and the echo of distant gunfire.

It was more than welcomed.

His team and him had been dispatched to gather intelligence on an enemy stronghold, tasked with keeping a low profile while avoiding detection, and to say it felt good being back on the field was an understatement. He hadn’t realized how relieving it would be to get away from all the confusion and stress that plagued him the past couple of weeks until now. Out here, there was nothing to worry about other than completing his objective. It was a gift—one he planned to treasure.

It has been too long since he was allowed to fully lose himself in his adrenaline anyway.

Through the corner of his scope, he caught a glimpse of a figure flitting in and out of his vision. He felt a familiar thrill course through him at the sight—the promise of a fight, sparking in his veins as he steadied his breath. He moved to follow suit, but before he could, a familiar voice spoke up behind him, instantly turning his blood cold.

"König."

He tensed, his grip hardening around his rifle. He knew that Scottish accent. He quickly turned, hoping to have been wrong, but like always, it seemed nothing could go his way as he came to see the one and only John MacTavish standing a few paces away. It made something deep within him twist uncomfortably, images of eyes filled with anger and hurt flashing through his mind.

What was he doing here?

He wasn’t supposed to be there.

This was 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨.

“Hey, König,” Soap continued, his voice soft. A smirk tugged playfully at the corners of his mouth—a disarming and magnetic sight, making König’s stomach flutter.

He hated it.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Soap, you shouldn’t be here,” he finally managed, his voice low and strained. Soap couldn’t be here—it wasn’t 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you didn’t miss me.” Soap teased, taking a step closer. Each deliberate move seemed to draw König in, and he hated how easily his defenses crumbled around the sergeant with every passing second.

Why was Soap being so…casual? It didn’t make any sense. He should hate him. Be angry. Anything but happy to see him. Yet here he was being his usual self. As if König hadn’t caused the sergeant to despise him.

A flicker of white caught König’s attention, drawing his gaze to Ghost, who, with his ever-intimidating presence, leaned against a graffitied wall, his icy gaze watching König intensely. The dim light of a street lamp caught the edge of his skull mask, glinting in a way that made König stiffen, his body preparing for anything the lieutenant may throw at him.

𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, König silently noted. At least he thought so.

What was going on?

“You alright, König? You’re tense.” Ghost pushed off the wall, taking slow strides toward König, exuding an aura of danger and…𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦?

Before König realized it, he found himself in front of them, the air thick with tension that felt suffocating. He wanted to run.

“What’s going on?” He managed to ask, his voice coming out weaker than he'd intended.

Damnit.

He shouldn’t be engaging in whatever 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 was. He had a mission to do, but the more he tried to focus on that, the more his mind seemed to forget what his mission had been in the first place. It was as if he was trying to scoop up sand, but the grains kept slipping through the cracks in his fingers—information there but just out of reach.

“We just wanted to see how you were doing,” Soap said, his tone suddenly dropping into something more serious. He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against König’s arm, sending electricity coursing down his spine. “Making sure you understood.”

König’s heart beated wildly in his chest, betraying his will to stop whatever was happening. It wasn’t right. He didn’t deserve whatever kindness Soap was trying to give. He deserved to be lashed out at, not this. “What do you mean? Why would you…?” His voice trailed off as Ghost stepped forward, his expression unreadable yet somehow full of promise.

“Sometimes, you need to allow yourself to understand what you truly desire.” Ghost said.

What?

As if a switch had flipped, Soap closed the distance between them, capturing König’s attention fully with a hand resting on the back of his neck, their eyes locking. The world around them seemed to fade away until only they remained, each breath charged with anticipation. “You want to know what we desire?” Soap whispered, teasing his lips closer to König's.

König desperately wanted to run but found his body had a mind of its own, instead leaning into the Scotsman's proximity. In that heartbeat, König felt the pull of gravity, as if he were being drawn to Soap. A moth following a flame with no escape. A lamb being led to the slaughter.

“Yes,” he murmured, the word escaping his lips before he could hold it back.

That was all it took.

Soap finally bridged the gap, gently pulling his hood above his nose and capturing his lips with a soft, hungry kiss. It was addicting—a taste of something sweet yet possessive. König melted into it, feeling his defenses crumble. He was so lost in the kiss, in the heat of the moment, he didn’t even realize Ghost had moved closer. Not until the lieutenant's rough hands found their way to his waist, pulling him closer as he snaked his other hand to cup König’s face.

Before König could even think to react, he was gasping as Ghost’s lips captured his, stealing away the warm, familiar affection that had been blooming with Soap. It was sudden—raw and overwhelming.

Ghost’s lips were unyielding, a force of nature that crushed against him with a passion that both disarmed and confused him. There was no softness, no gentleness; just a possessive urgency. The kiss was aggressive, a challenge, each press and pull filled with a spark more electrifying than anything König had felt before. It should have felt jarring, off-putting even, but something about it was just so 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, that it felt right somehow.

The memory of Soap’s playful inflections vanished, replaced by a whirlwind of sensations that folded in on themselves. Ghost’s heart was beating wildly beneath his gear, thrumming against König’s chest. And surprisingly, König felt himself surrendering to the unexpected ferocity; his mind spun with uncertainty, yet his body leaned into it, aching and eager.

The world around him faded deeper, the heat of the kiss igniting a fire within him. Ghost’s hand tangled in the base of König’s hair under the hood, tilting his head to deepen the kiss while Soap pressed into him from behind, hands exploring and giving him all the strength he needed to surrender. It was nice to not be in control for once.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Soap murmured, his breath hot against König's ear, increasing the fire within that threatened to consume him.

The air thickened, and the kiss between him and the lieutenant became more urgent—greedy. König kissed him back, grinding against him, feeling calloused hands roaming, fingers exploring. Ghost’s mouth trailed down his jaw, and Soap pressed closer, reaching a hand down to press against the bulge that had formed in his pants. He couldn’t help but let out a bitten-off, pathetic-sounding moan, his back arching against their bodies—

König gasped as he shot up from his bed breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest as he looked around disoriented, his mind slowly comprehending the walls of his room and (thankfully) still soundly sleeping roomate.

“Scheiße.” He breathed out after a moment, falling back on his bed as he brought his hands up to cover his eyes. The Austrian lay motionless, trying his best to keep the memories of the dream from completely rising back into the forefront of his mind.

What was he supposed to do? What did this even 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯? He'd dreamt of Soap before, but never like 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. König felt a wave of guilt wash over him as reality set in. He'd dreamt about 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱, his friend—no, one of his faction's 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘴 in a 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 way. He’d dreamt about the elusive 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 of T.F. 141 in a sexual way for fucks sake. A man who wouldn’t hesitate to put a knife through his throat.

An uneasy twinge of regret and guilt settled in König's stomach as his conscience tried to remind him of his boundaries. He had crossed a line in dreaming of Soap and Ghost like that, and it made him feel even worse.

He didn't deserve to be in their presence, to receive any kindness they could give, let alone be in a possible relationship of any kind with them. Fuck buddy or partner, friend or ally. Not after how he left.

He wasn’t even a part of the 141 anymore; he had no reason to think about the soldiers residing within the faction.

Soap was in a relationship with 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵—who, mind you, definitely would still have it out for König after everything that happened. If anything, he’d be more hostile than before. Especially now that they were on different sides.

There was a very slim possibility he’d ever even see the sergeant and lieutenant again. All he had to do was ignore this dream ever happening—forget about them as they most likely will him. Go back to being nothing but the monster he’s always been. A soldier to be ordered around and nothing more. It wouldn't be that hard, right?

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“Hey, what’s this?” Horangi asked, tilting his head slightly as he ran a hand through his messy hair. His tone was a mix of curiosity and disbelief, as if he were trying to grasp an absurdity that shouldn’t have been there.

König, who’d been putting on his boots to head down to the training grounds for an early shooting practice, looked up, confusion evident under his hood. His eyes widened as they locked onto what the Korean was staring at, body tensing.

𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦.

Soap’s drawing.

He’d been so exhausted yesterday from having to deal with the transition back to KorTac with his superiors and all that had happened before his departure from 141 that he’d only had enough energy to unpack his duffel hazardously before calling it a night. As a result, the drawing Soap had gifted him must’ve ended up on the small nightstand he shared with Horangi.

He couldn’t help the wave of annoyance that surged through him. First the dream and now this? What was with the universe and having it out for him? Seriously, was it so hard to ask for one day where he wasn’t constantly being spitted on?

Horangi furrowed his brow as he continued to squint at the peculiar drawing laying on the nightstand. A faint sound of buzzing came from the light bulb in their room, but the usual annoyance didn't deter Horangi’s focus. Since when did König willingly participate in a 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 activity? Especially one that required him to sit still and be scrutinized?

It was possible König ran into a street drawer of some kind while over at 141’s base and decided to get drawn, but that was a very big assumption and an unlikely one at that.

“It’s a foolish depiction,” König muttered, dismissing it as casually as he could, but the tension in his voice did little to hide the slight tremor of vulnerability that underlined his words.

“Foolish?” Horangi’s incredulous tone rang through the space. “You’re joking. I mean, 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 at this. It might as well be a picture of you.”

𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨.

𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.

“Where’d you get it?” Horangi asked.

König glanced away, the knot in his chest only intensifying. The room felt heavier now, just like his thoughts, and he couldn't shake the itch of embarrassment as he tried to think of a reasonable response. He didn’t want to bring up Soap. He wanted to forget about the sergeant as quickly as possible. It was just a silly drawing of him—it wasn’t even accurate.

“You should hang it,” Horangi continued as he picked up the drawing and held it up, König fought the urge to rip it away from the Korean. It wasn’t Horangi’s fault he was curious over a drawing. He didn't know what it had meant to him.

“Nein, I—” 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘛𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. “wouldn’t know where to hang it.”

Horangi glanced over at König and hummed. “Dat's a shame,” he said and walked over to König. He extended his hand, offering the drawing. “I think whoever drew it really knew what dey were doing.”

König took the drawing wordlessly, nodding his head. Horangi didn’t miss the way his body relaxed slightly. “Ja, they are…very talented,” he said after a moment.

Horangi nodded his agreement, eyes intently focused on König. It was obvious the drawing's origin brought him discomfort—it didn’t take a genius to realize that. He was well aware of what König’s telltale signs of discomfort were. It took awhile for him to figure them out; the hood always seemed to get in his way of noticing things like that in the beginning, but now he was far better at reading König. He may not have been a good gambler, but if he had to place a bet on when König was comfortable and when he wasn’t, he knew he’d win every time. He wouldn’t push König to keep talking about it, but this did help confirm something for him: something happened at T.F. 141, and it had something to do with a soldier there.

There was no way König would pay someone to draw him and that accompanied by his usual habit of staying on base made it crystal clear. Someone over at 141 managed to slip past König’s defenses and get close to him. Close enough to where König would allow them to draw him. It almost sounded unbelievable but that was what made the most sense.

He only hoped whoever it was hadn’t hurt König, and this was just the Austrian missing them.

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König leaned against the back of his chair in the briefing room, the distant sounds of soldiers preparing for their early morning drill echoing through the dimly lit corridors outside. A part of him felt out of place being back here, unnatural like the knot in his chest that seemed to tighten more with every passing day. It was strange. No matter what he did, it seemed he couldn’t shake the unease he felt being back with KorTac.

He thought it would disappear after a few days, but here he was a week later and the knot was still there. It wasn’t natural, this sense of longing. He didn’t remember the last time he felt like this, and he couldn’t understand why he felt this way about T.F. 141. He’d moved from base to base before, and bid farewell to countless soldiers, but never has he felt as hollow as he does now.

It was stupid. Laughable, even. But Gaz's kind words haunted him, a warm remnant that lingered in the corners of his mind. The way Gaz would crack jokes and bicker with Soap and Roach replayed in König’s memory like a movie on loop.

The feeling twisted in his gut. He hated that he was missing them—the very people who had once been nothing but another task he needed to complete in order to fulfill a mission now left him with an ache in his chest he couldn’t fix. No matter how hard he tried.

Roach’s friendly nature—the way he'd make sure everyone felt included or shared cheeky remarks—was a memory that floated just out of reach. And whenever König heard someone call out for him, a small part of him would involuntarily jerk, expecting to see Soap standing there.

He never was.

And he never would be again.

Even now he found his eyes drifting, drawn to the empty seat across from him where Ghost would sit, arms crossed, body lax, and gaze fixed on him. The ache inside him screamed.

This was stupid.

Why did he miss them? They were just soldiers—his enemies. There was no point in trying to delude himself into believing he would ever work with them again. That they would want to work with him again.

He needed to forget them.

He wants to forget them.

He 𝘩𝘢𝘥 to forget them.

So why—

“Hey, Chingu, are you alright?” A voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. König slightly tensed, having forgotten he wasn’t the only one in the briefing room. Turning, he saw the look of worry plastered across Horangi’s face—brows furrowed, mouth drawn down into a frown and eyes flickering over every miniscule movement made.

He bit the inside of his cheek, fist tightening on his thigh. A brief nod was all he managed in response. He couldn’t tell Horangi the truth—he just couldn’t. He could never show any weakness here, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the Korean try to console him. He already despised the constant worry he’s been causing Horangi as it was—it was wasted on a piece of filth like him.

“Are you sure? You seem a bit... off,” Horangi continued, his eyebrows furrowing further with worry.

König wanted to scream. Why did Horangi have to be so caring? Why was it he even cared? What did he gain from wasting time on him like this?

He wanted to brush off the concern again; he really did, but there was no denying it; he was off. He wasn't present. The warmth of his time with 141 wrapped around him like a cocoon, subtle yet suffocating, and left him with no escape. He was distracted, and anyone could see that.

“Just tired,” König said, a half-truth that felt too light for the burden he was carrying. It didn’t matter. He deserved this. He should’ve never let himself get as close as he did with Gaz, Roach, Soap, and even Ghost.

Horangi didn’t press further, which König was grateful for, but the pity in his eyes under the sunglasses was evident, igniting the undeniable feeling of anger in König’s veins. Why couldn’t he forget? Why couldn’t he just move on as he always has? Why did he have to be so weak?

𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, he silently scolded, feeling his nails dig into his palm. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘍𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴.

But how could he focus when every empty corner of his mind was plagued with thoughts of T.F. 141? How could he stop longing when every small detail seemed to remind him of someone from over there?

It was a battle, not against an enemy but against himself. And he despised the weakness it stirred within him. Perhaps that was what he hated most of all—the reminder that even after he swore to himself he wouldn’t let anyone get close again, he still allowed it to happen.

“Alright, listen up.” A voice echoed across the room, an air of authority resonating from it. König tensed as he turned to face the man that voice belonged to: Oni. “The captain has a mission for all of you.”

Aksel snorted from across the table. “Well, no shit. I wouldn’t have guessed that's why we’re ere’.”

Stiletto chuckled from beside Horangi while Hutch groaned. “Man, shut up and let Oni speak,” Hutch said.

Aksel rolled his eyes. “I do not take orders from you.”

“But you do from me,” Oni said, cutting off the two soldiers bickering. “And unless you want to be written up, I suggest you shut up and listen.” He waited a moment, eyeing everyone around the table, and once it was clear no more interruptions were going to happen, he continued. “Right then, let’s get straight to business, shall we?”

Oni pulled out a folder from a stack of papers on the table and handed it to Aksel, who was closest to his right. It was light and didn’t appear to have anything inside except for a few documents. Hutch tried to peek over Aksel’s shoulder to see the folder’s contents without getting into the man's personal space, but failed in the end, ultimately giving up and leaning back in his chair with a huff to wait for the folder to be passed around.

Horangi couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his lips from the man's antics. “Someones an eager puppy, huh, König?” He whispered, nudging König gently as he gestured to Hutch. The Austrian hummed in agreement.

“Ja, although he is quite big for a puppy.”

Horangi snorted. “You’re not wrong.”

“This folder contains the intelligence Calisto has gathered regarding the recent interference in our operations, identified by higher command approximately one week ago,” Oni continued, silencing Horangi’s little sidebar conversation. “The timeline is more tight than anticipated, but certainly sufficient enough for you to get the job done.”

Stiletto leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. She played with her silver blade, reflecting the overhead lights as she went over the information in her head. “What kind of interference are we dealing with?”

“A rogue group has made contact with external forces. They pose a significant threat to our interests if left unchecked. We believe they’re planning something big, and we need to stop it before it gains momentum,” Oni explained, his tone clipped.

Horangi's brow furrowed. “Location?”

“Intelligence points towards a disused facility in the outskirts of Busan. You've got your insertion route mapped out already,” Oni replied, nodding to Aksel, who had been poring over the file that showed the layout of the facility.

“We go in, locate the intel, and neutralize the threat,” Aksel said, his voice steady. Next to him, Nikto crossed his arms, his expression hidden beneath his mask, but his body language indicated he was relaxed. He sat there, legs spread wide, looking completely unbothered by the information.

"Egxtraction point?" he asked.

“Evac will be at a designated safe house a mile away. We’ll have backup standing by, but it’s your operation. The quicker you get in and out, the better,” Oni answered.

“So, stealth or guns blazing? Because I’d bet on the fact they won’t expect my chocolate thunder ass sculpted by Michelangelo himself charging through the door,” Hutch said, ever the joker. It didn’t matter if it was over comms, in the middle of the field, off the field, or at a mission briefing—he’d always find some way to joke around. It was a characteristic many found amusing or annoying.

Oni grinned slightly. “We leave no one behind, Hutch. Ass sculpted by Michelangelo or not. And whether quiet or noisy, we make sure they remember the day they messed with us.” Oni leaned forward on the table, his voice lowered as he continued to say, “Now, as for your roles in this mission, König, you and Nikto will take point. Hutch, you’re our tech support. Horangi, Stiletto, you provide cover if things go south, and Aksel, you’re on comms.”

Stiletto nodded, already lost in thoughts of the mission. She was always calculating, analyzing risks and outcomes. “We should move fast, make our presence felt, and then disappear.”

“Hear, hear!” Hutch said, raising a fist in an exaggerated show of enthusiasm. “May the odds be ever in our favor!”

Oni stepped back, casting a glance at each of them. “Remember to watch each other’s six. You may not have the luxury of time on this one. You’ll fly out in twenty. Unless you have any more questions, you’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.’” They all said in perfect unison.

The sounds of chairs scooting across the floor filled the room, and König stood, moving to walk around the table and out the door.

His first mission back with KorTac.

He glanced over at Nikto, already expecting to meet the lieutenant's gaze. Since his return, König had caught glimpses of a figure in the corner of his eye, always obscured by shadows or the bustle of fellow operators training. It didn’t take him long to figure out it was Nikto who’d been following him, watching him with a strange intensity, as if the masked soldier was dissecting him piece by piece.

It made his skin crawl not only with unease from Nikto himself, but from who Nikto reminded him of. It was like a curse Ghost had put on him—forever forcing him to be under someone's watchful eye.

The only thing that brought him comfort was the fact that, unlike Ghost, Nikto’s staring, while unwavering, lacked any hostility. There was a keen curiosity there, and for König, that was both a relief and a growing source of confusion.

Initially, he tried to brush it off as paranoia. A side effect to what Ghost had put him through. After all, soldiers observed each other all the time, assessing skills, strengths, and weaknesses; it was part of the job. But as the days rolled on, the encounters became harder to ignore.

There were moments when König would catch Nikto leaning against a wall in the common area, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind his mask, watching him as he conversed with Horangi.

Other times, as he practiced shooting at the range (far earlier than most soldiers woke up), König would feel a distinct pressure on the back of his neck—the unmistakable awareness that Nikto was standing nearby, observing his technique with what seemed like undivided attention.

There was even one time during a group exercise designed to test tactical formations. König was leading his unit through a series of maneuvers when he noticed Nikto standing to the side, silent and watchful. He could feel the weight of those observant eyes like a lead vest, forcing a shiver up his spine.

Once again, the discomfort nagged at him, but when the drill concluded and the soldiers dispersed, so did Nikto. And that was the thing. Nikto never stuck around for long. Heck, half the time he’d leave if König so much as glanced at him. It wasn’t like he cowered away; no, he simply seemed to lose interest in König the moment he realized he was caught. Like this was a game to him, one he only found amusement in if König was left oblivious.

Much like right now. The second they made eye contact, it lasted only a few seconds before Nikto was turning away and walking out the door.

König felt his jaw clench.

This was going to be an interesting mission, one way or another.

Chapter Text

König adjusted his gear, clenched his hands around the cold metal of his M4A1, and glanced over to Nikto, who remained unnervingly composed, his black armored mask concealing any hint of emotion. Since boarding the AC-130, he hadn’t said a word, instead choosing to sit there like a statue—eyes closed and body unmoving.

König couldn't say for sure why the lack of staring coming from Nikto unsettled him more than when the Russian was staring, but it did. It just felt…𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, somehow. Like if Nikto decided he was going to randomly stare at him any chance he could, he should at least stay dedicated and not make things more confusing. It wasn’t like the Russian was necessarily doing anything wrong either. He was just sitting there. So why did it bother him so much? König couldn’t exactly say for sure. Maybe it was because he was expecting the other shoe to drop. Because there 𝘩𝘢𝘥 to be something else linked with the sudden lack of eyes piercing through him. There just had to be.

König didn’t know what that something would be, but he wasn’t going to wait to find out. He was sick of not having any control. So, despite every instinct in his body telling him to stay silent, he spoke up.

"First time working together," he said, silently grateful he managed to keep his tone even.

Nikto opened his eyes, the intensity of his gaze sending a tingle down König’s spine.

𝘔𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵.

There was that familiar curiosity again, but wrapped in the unsettling silence that often encased Nikto, as König was coming to find out. He nodded and then looked away, his focus shifting to his M4A1. At least, that's how he tried to make it seem. His face was angled down, but König could just barely make out his eyes staring up at him, scrutinizing him, ready to dissect every movement he made, no doubt believing the hollow encasings surrounding his eyes from the mask covered his staring.

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵.

König couldn’t help the pang of irritation he felt. He knew he wasn’t the best at conversation, but he hadn’t been rude. The least the guy could’ve done was verbally respond. Instead, he just made König feel like an idiot. He couldn’t be more grateful no one was sitting near him other than Nikto—Horangi was busy gossiping with Hutch about something involving octopuses near the back of the plane. For whatever reason.

If he had to sit through the embarrassment of basically talking to himself with others around, he’d jump out of the plane right then and there. Screw the fact he didn't have a parachute.

Thankfully it wasn’t long before the plane landed smoothly, the rotors creating a tempest that twisted the fog around them. As they all went to step off of the transport, König, irritated at the masked man in front of him for making him feel just like Ghost used to—for making him feel so 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤—sped up his walk to get ahead of Nikto, passing by the lieutenant and nearly swiping him with the gear in his hands.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳, he silently thought.

König didn’t look at Nikto as he passed by, walking with his back pin needle straight to reach his full height, wind whipping as he breezed past, making his way to the abandoned facility now coming into view—a hulking mass of concrete and decay. Not at first, anyway. But he couldn’t help the small glance he tossed over his shoulder, and the simmering, low prickle under his skin he felt made him regret it instantly. Anger. Annoyance. Defensiveness at the damn look of 𝘢𝘮𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 in the Russian’s eyes.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦?

“𝘈𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵,” Aksel’s voice crackled through the comms, cutting König to the core as he was forcefully reminded that he was 𝙤𝙣 𝙖 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣. “𝘐𝘯𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘺. 𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘵𝘴. 𝘏𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯’ 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭.”

“𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵,” König responded.

“Everyone stay close,” Nikto ordered, his voice a low rumble as he came to stand side-by-side with König. He glanced over at the Austrian and slightly quirked his head to the side, as if to ask, ‘Is this a problem?’ König resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Let's move,” he said. He could practically feel the smirk radiating off of Nikto. It made his grip tighten on his M4A1.

The group didn’t need to be told twice, instantly falling in line behind him and moving to approach the facility. They navigated through the tall grass and jagged rocks, the only sound being the crunch of gravel beneath their boots. It was quiet—maybe too quiet. It made König’s heart begin to quicken, each beat echoing in his ears. A surge of energy coursed through his veins, making his breath shallow and his senses sharpen, every detail around him coming into razor-sharp focus. Time distorted, slowing, yet his mind raced, processing information at lightning speed. His muscles tensed, ready to spring into action, driven by the raw, electric power of the adrenaline rush. He loved it. Had 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 it. Even 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 it. It’d been so long since he was allowed on the field, and now that he was finally there, nothing else mattered. Only this feeling and the mission. Not the fact he was finally reunited with Horangi on an op again, not that it was too quiet for comfort, and not the tension between him and Nikto. Just this. Just this 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯’ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦," Aksel’s voice said, crackling through the comms.

“𝘙𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵,” Nikto acknowledged. With a deft movement, he pulled out a small digital device, the screen illuminating his mask with an eerie glow. He tapped a few commands, and a map of the site flashed in König’s peripheral vision.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦,” Aksel announced, referring to a red circle on the north side of the building. Then a new red circle appeared a few meters down the exterior of the building to their upcoming entrance point. “𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘱𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯’ 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘺-𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯’ 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢’ 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘚𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮. 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯’ 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘶𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘛𝘳𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥.”

“𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵,” König responded, trying to suppress the urge to charge right in—to lose himself. He couldn’t. Not yet, anyway.

They continued in silence, moving like shadows through the foliage, their focus unwavering.

Meanwhile, Hutch was busy back on the aircraft positioned at the extraction point with Aksel, setting up the tech for monitoring communications. He expertly navigated the system and linked into the facility’s old security cameras, his fingers dancing over the keyboard like a magician conjuring spells.

“𝘐’𝘮 𝘪𝘯, 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘬𝘴! 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘴. 𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺’𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮. 𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘺’𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦. 𝘕𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥,” he reported over the comms.

“𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘏𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩,” König’s voice crackled through the radio. “𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘞𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.”

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘵, 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘯.”

König clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to shrink at the American’s words. It wasn’t like with Soap. It felt 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 to hear that.

𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵, 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸, he silently scolded himself. König took a deep breath, stealing his nerves, and continued to trudge through the gravelly terrain. He ignored the eyes boring into him.

As König and Nikto reached the side entrance, Nikto signaled for silence. Horangi and Stiletto took up positions at the rear, weapons at the ready. The stale air was heavy with the scent of rust and neglect. Nikto crouched down and scanned the door, looking for any traps or alarms. König felt the anticipation rise, a thrill coursing through him—this was it.

With a nod from his ‘partner’, König, without hesitation, full bodily rammed into the door, the rusty hinges creaking in protest before completely snapping, sending the door flying. They slipped inside the dimly lit corridor, weapons raised as they scanned for any enemy soldiers on the other side.

The first thing König thought as he scanned the hall was that this place really was old. The walls were broken down, mold and old water leaks staining the concrete. The floors looked more like earth's surface than actual flooring anymore, and the air was tainted with dust. A building long forgotten now forcefully being brought back to life to be shot up in the ugly battle between man. It was almost sad.

Nikto moved ahead, his eyes scanning for any potential danger. König followed closely, doing the same. Every slight flicker of a shadow he tensed, ready to fire, only to be disappointed as it turned out to be nothing. It wasn’t right, but he couldn’ stop that heavy weight from pressing down on his chest. He needed to be free. Craved it. They reached a junction with two paths: one leading deeper into the facility and the other towards the control room.

“Stick to—” Before Nikto could finish his sentence, König dashed down the left hallway. It felt 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. This was where he’d finally get his fix. His freedom. “What the fuck—”

“Hey, don't take it personally, Nikto. König just goes rogue sometimes. Guess we forgot to give you the heads-up.” Horangi chuckled lightly as he approached, slapping a hand on the Russian’s shoulder. He instantly yanked his hand back as if it had been burned. He didn’t know exactly 𝘸𝘩𝘺 he did; he just knew he had to. It was instinct, pure and primal—like how a gazelle might dart into the underbrush at the inexplicable sense that something was wrong—that it was about to be bled dry. He cleared his throat. “Uh, if you wanna catch up, I’d suggest you start running. Me and Stiletto can cover the right hall,” he continued, trying to force down the sudden feeling of unease that washed over him like a cold wave.

“Who’s this ‘we’ you're talking about? Stultus es.^[16] I don’t need you slowing me down,” Stiletto scoffed.

Horangi chuckled. “Do you really want to get stuck with those two?” he gestured down the hall where Nikto was hot on König’s heels, no doubt pissed by the other man's actions.

Stiletto hummed, her eyes glued to the two masked men’s backs as they slowly faded from view. She could practically smell the testosterone. It was utterly disgusting. “I suppose not. Just don’t get in my way.”

Horangi smirked. “I should be saying dat to you.”

König darted down the hall, his footsteps thundering throughout the corridor. He could feel Nikto catching up to him and knew the lieutenant was probably pissed, but he didn’t care. He was so 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦. He had to keep going.

They continued charging down the corridor, the tension palpable between them as they approached a turn in the hall.

Instantly slowing down, König began inching his way to the turn in the corridor. He peeked around the corner, catching glimpses of flickering lights and figures standing further down the hall. There were two individuals present, armed and guarding a reinforced door marked with peeling paint that bore warnings of high-security access—exactly where they needed to be.

“Multiple enemies ahead, two on lookout at the control room,” König whispered to Nikto, cutting off anything the Russian may want to say as he finally caught up with the Austrian.

“Let’s split them up. You take the left,” König ordered, keeping his voice low, “I’ll take the right. Silent takedowns only.”

Nikto stared at him for a moment, seemingly assessing something, before nodding. They both adjusted their positions, preparing to run. Once both soldiers turned to look down the hall (facing away from them), König burst down the corridor straight towards the soldier to the left of the door, swift and silent, gripping the guard from behind. With practiced motion, he snapped the man's neck—a noiseless dance of death, almost fluid in its execution. Meanwhile, Nikto had executed his takedown just as seamlessly on the right side, leaving no sign of life in his wake.

“Clear,” König reported, scanning the dimly lit hallway. He took a moment to compose himself, preparing to have to deal with an annoying lecture from Nikto, but it never came. Instead, the lieutenant withdrew a small explosive device from his pouch. “Cover,” he said sharply before placing it on the door handle and stepping aside.

König wasted no time taking a step back. He looked at Nikto curiously, listening as the device quickly beeped down.

The lieutenant’s eyes crinkled, as though he was smiling under the mask. “You listen to your voices. I like that.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬?

With a subtle click, the device detonated; a muffled explosion followed by the sound of metal clattering echoed through the hallway. The door buckled, swinging open to reveal the control room and the startled faces of four rogue operatives, their eyes wide with confusion and urgency.

“Go!” Nikto roared, charging ahead like a bull on a rampage.

König couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of him as he quickly followed, the thrill taking over. They burst into the room, weapons drawn. The element of surprise was on their side as Nikto took down the nearest threat with a swift movement, disabling him before he could even aim his weapon with three shots. One to the leg and two to the chest. Blood gushed out in a heavy river from the poor bastard’s leg, pooling on the ground. König aimed at another operative who was reaching for a sidearm, and with a squeezed trigger, he sent the man crashing to the ground.

The chaos erupted—two remaining rogues fired back, the muzzle flashes bright against the dark. König dove behind a nearby console, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Clear left!” he shouted, and Nikto nodded, slipping seamlessly to the side like an experienced dancer.

“On three!” Nikto signaled, and they both readied their weapons. “One, two—”

As they moved in unison, König felt a surge of electricity course through him. It was baffling how well they worked together, despite the lingering question of what Nikto’s problem with him was. If they could even trust each other. With a few well-aimed shots, they took down the last two threats, leaving nothing but bloody chaos in their wake.

Breathing heavily, König stepped over the fallen bodies toward the main terminal. The squelch of blood echoed with every step he took. He stared at them for a moment, feeling nothing. He knew he should feel something, but he just couldn’t. The rush wasn’t over. He didn’t have to be guilty just yet. He glanced around the room, and there it was—a dusty machine still pulsing with life in the dim light.

“Get to work on that terminal,” König directed Nikto, who moved to access the VDU. He seemed to be just like König—unaffected by the sight of another person's body lying dead and motionless because of his actions.

It was unnerving.

His fingers flew over the keys, crackling over encrypted data streams as he hacked into the facility’s systems with the guidance of Hutch over comms. Each keystroke echoed in König's ears; time was of the essence, and they had precious few minutes before potential reinforcements could arrive.

He hoped they got there quickly.

It was sick—he knew that. He just couldn’t find it in himself to care right now. He wasn’t in front of Soap, where he had to hide the monster, or in front of Ghost, who he had to try and keep some semblance of good relations with. There was no Gaz and Roach who he wanted to still try and coexist with him without it feeling like an obligation. There was no fear of ruining the potential alliance between KorTac and 141. He was free. This was KorTac—they knew he was a monster already, and that's what they 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥. It's why he was contracted.

“Password override: done,” Nikto murmured, the screen lighting up with streams of data. “Looks like they’re in communication with an external force—possible plans vor an arms shipment—a significant one.”

König frowned; this was bigger than they had anticipated. “Can you get me a location?”

“Working on it,” Nikto replied, his voice a smooth rumble, completely devoid of any sense of panic or fear at being too slow.

Before they could gain further intel, however, the distant echo of footsteps reached their ears. They weren’t alone anymore.

“Hurry up,” König urged, glancing at the door, tension coiling in his muscles. The sound grew closer, rhythmically confirming they had mere seconds.

“Almost there…just a moment, da,” Nikto pressed on, his face impassive beneath the mask.

“Five seconds,” König said, his mind racing. He could almost taste the sweat on his brow, the adrenaline settling in as he readied himself for the worst.

𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺.

“Got it.” Nikto said, a note of triumph flashing in his voice. He downloaded the location data and saved it to a flash drive, just as the door swung open.

“Now!” König yelled, pushing Nikto aside and lunging forward to engage. One enemy barreled in, followed by another, and König met the charge head-on, using his weight and crafting a grapple that sent his assailant crashing against the wall with a sickening thud.

In the process, he was sent crashing to the ground, his lungs being forced to exhale all their air as his body made contact with the cold concrete. It hurt more than he was expecting it to—way more than he’d thought.

The lack of air in his lungs made his body scream. He needed to breathe, but every inhale he tried to make only got caught in his throat—he was choking with no way to stop it. Air was evading him in a sick torment. Cursing him for feeling nothing towards those soldiers. He deserved this, he—

He blinked, and the lights around him faded—morphed into the familiar, too bright hospital room spotlights. The smell of disinfectant—masking sickness and death—flooded his nose. The room shifted. It wasn’t one filled with dead soldiers and gunfire anymore; instead, it was now a room thick with tension, the air almost crackling with unspoken words.

Green eyes, usually warm and inviting, were now blazing with anger, a Scottish accent screaming, each word spat out laced with anger and pity. Lies. Every last word. He could see every detail in Soap’s expression clearly, as if he were standing right before him: the furrowed brows, the tight line of his mouth, the way his nostrils flared with each breath he took. The fury clouded with betrayal in his gaze, cutting through him like a knife.

Soap had trusted him, 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 in him, and now that trust was shattered. The weight of his disappointment pressed down on him, just as the lack of oxygen was now. He remembered the way Soap’s voice trembled, not with fear but with the intensity of his emotions. Every syllable was a blow, each accusation, every stupid r̶e̶a̶s̶o̶n̶ 𝘭𝘪𝘦 a reminder of his failure—of his 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. The room seemed to shrink around them, the walls closing in as Soap’s eyes bore into his, filled with a pain that he knew he had caused. So hurt. So desperate, and it was all his fault. He was weak. Pathetic. Stupid. A monster. Nothing but a monster. He should just disappear. Die. 𝘋𝘪𝘦. 𝘿𝙞𝙚—

“Ghet up! You can die later!” Nikto shouted, forcefully cutting through the fog of guilt, hate, and disgust that encased König’s mind. Somewhere in the past few seconds (had it really only been seconds?) Nikto had sprung to König’s side with unexpected speed, drawing his sidearm, and dispatched the remaining guard just as a second wave lunged towards them. The air was filled with adrenaline and tension, thick enough to taste.

Those words seemed to forcefully reboot König, because no sooner than when those words were uttered, he was quickly regaining his footing and taking down the two advancing guards with rapid precision. There was no way he was dying here. Not when he felt so 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦. He wouldn’t allow it.

Nikto provided cover, his shots finding their marks flawlessly, never hesitating. They worked in unison despite being strangers—König’s strength paired with Nikto’s precision allowed them to neutralize the threat with startling efficiency. It was strange. Moments ago König couldn’t even stand being near the Russian and now they were fighting alongside one another like it was second nature.

But they weren’t done yet. No sooner had they cleared the immediate threat than an alarm blared, lights flashing and circling the walls around them. Bleeding the room red. The facility practically shook as all hell broke loose around them. “We’ve outstayed our welcome,” König said, excitement evident in his voice.

“Egxtraction point?” Nikto asked, reloading his weapon while eyeing the darkened corridors leading deeper into the facility.

“A mile away, past the perimeter fence. We make a break for it now,” König ordered, grabbing the flash drive and gesturing for Nikto to follow closely.

They raced for the exit just as the sound of more footsteps echoed through the hallways.

“𝘞𝘦’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺!”

“𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘺!” Horangi yelled through the comms a second after Stiletto shouted, the aggressiveness mixed with urgency in his voice cutting through the growing chaos.

Without hesitation, Nikto threw a flashbang down the hallway, temporarily blinding their pursuers. Up ahead König spotted Stiletto and Horangi running down the right corridor he ignored earlier, soldiers' footsteps echoing from behind them as well. Without even having to be told they quickly fell in line behind him and Nikto, the team moving in swift unison.

Dodging through the maze of corridors and obstacles, they hurried towards the exit and charged through the door leading outside, their pursuers following close behind.

Aksel's voice crackled through the comms. “𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵!”

“𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘥! 𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯!” König clung to the drive containing the intel, intent on not losing it no matter the cost. There was no way he could fail—he wasn’t allowed to.

“𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘴!” Horangi shouted, urgency lacing every word uttered.

“𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯’! 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦,” Aksel urged, his voice steady.

Gunfire erupted, splintering the air as bullets zipped past their heads. Nikto moved fluidly, returning fire with an unmatched fluidity—aiming with lethal precision. König felt a surge of euphoria; mirroring Nikto's actions, he covered one angle as Nikto covered the other, wordlessly working in sync. This was what he’d been waiting for. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 is what he lived for.

Stiletto and Horangi worked in perfect synchronicity, laying down suppressive fire. Each pull of a trigger a second someone's life was swayed on the line between life and death. One wrong move, one bullet off, and it was all over—signified with six feet of dirt forever residing above.

“We need to take those bastards down!” Stiletto shouted, her voice slicing through the air.

With a nod from König, they executed a coordinated move, cutting through the onslaught with precision. It was scary how they worked together effortlessly. It was something König hadn’t realized he missed. It was nothing like with the 141 or other PMCs he’s been loaned to, where he felt like his every move was being watched and slowing the team down. Here they all just did whatever it took to survive. It didn’t matter how much he disrupted the flow—charging off on his own and executing soldiers with more brutality and recklessness than necessary. He may be the old rusted clog in the machine that would never truly fit in with the others, but with this machine it seemed he wasn’t at risk of being tossed out. Not yet, anyway.

“Let’s move! Egxtraction point is a mile away! They von’t stay var behind for long!” Nikto barked, their breakthrough imminent now, the sounds of the soldiers' footsteps fading behind them. They sprinted towards the extraction point, constantly checking their six.

“Over dere!” Horangi shouted, pointing towards the AC-130 already slowly rolling to get ready to take off. König ran beside him like a hellhound with its teeth bared and body strung tight, ready to bite anyone who dared to get close. Nikto and Stiletto were close behind them, glancing around their surroundings as they moved forward—two scorpions ready to strike at a moment's notice.

The wind whipped around them, displacing the debris and thundering through their bodies. Aksel stood on the ramp of the plane, waving his hand.

“Get your asses moving or we’re leaving s’you here!” He shouted.

They all picked up pace as the plane started to gain momentum. König felt his heart pounding in his chest, his muscles screaming at him, and his blood coursing through his veins, but all he could think of was that he wanted 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. He wanted to turn around and take out every last one of the enemy soldiers remaining, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to leave and face the consequences of his own actions. He had to hear their screams tonight. That thought alone began to unravel the cocoon he intrapped himself in.

It was over.

Horangi climbed in first, followed by Stiletto, who had gained a sudden burst of speed to the front. König rushed in, followed closely by Nikto as a flurry of approaching voices filled the air behind them. Without looking back, they slipped inside just as the plane lifted off. A few bullets hit the aircraft but barely scraped the paint.

“WOOO! THAT'S FROM DOWNTOWN BABY!” Hutch shouted as they soared into the sky, throwing his hands up in the air. His voice seemed louder than the AC-130’s engines as König felt the adrenaline fade, leaving behind a mixture of guilt and exhaustion.

𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Wow, Stiletto, it looks like you’re gettin’ sloppy,” Fender greeted as they all stepped off of the transport, pointing at Stiletto’s cheek. It was the one with the scar—skin tissue running diagonally across her face, starting just above her left eyebrow and cutting down across her cheek, ending near her cheekbone before being intersected by another line of scar tissue running aslant down her face in the opposite direction, coming to stop at the bottom of her chin. The scar was deep and jagged. It had a slightly raised texture, with a pale, almost silvery hue contrasting against her skin, and was now accompanied by the crimson sight of blood dripping over it. Somewhere during the hailstorm of bullets, her face must’ve been nicked.

“Shut up, if it had been you out there you’d already be six feet under.” Stiletto shot back, glaring at Fender as she brought a hand up to her cheek and wiped the blood away.

Fender laughed. “That a fact?”

“It is. Want me to make it a reality?” She suggested, taking a step towards Fender with the promise of stabbing him. Fender took a step back and raised his hands in a mock surrender.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Stiletto scoffed. “Coward,” she said and walked past him, shouldering him on her way.

“Your beret’s also crooked.” Fender retorted, grinning. Stiletto didn’t bother to respond, instead choosing to throw up her hand and raise her middle finger as she walked away. “Jeez, vwhomen are so sensitive,” Fender mumbled.

Hutch laughed. “Man, you're an asshole, y’know that?” He clasped a hand on Fender’s shoulder, leaning some of his body weight against the Hungarian. Fender accepted the weight easily.

“Vhatttt?” Fender drawled. “I am no such thing.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

“I’m not, I swear!”

“Dude you don't have to lie with me. I see you.”

“You see nothing because I am not—”

“You both are annoying,” Aksel muttered, walking past them.

“Only when you're around, baby! Y’know I love up!” Hutch shouted, throwing up a makeshift heart with his hands. Fender laughed as he muttered something to Hutch, most likely insulting the Norwegian, making Hutch chuckle.

Aksel turned around, ready to yell at Hutch, but König didn’t get to focus on what was said as a certain Korean spoke up.

“Hey, Chingu,” Horangi said, effectively drawing König’s attention away from his teammates bickering. He’d been trailing behind the group, silently observing them as he felt the dead weight of his limbs. Until now, he never really let himself think about how his team interacted with one another. It was so different from the close-knit vibe of the 141, making it evidently clear how, at the end of the day, they were just soldiers tossed together. No true connection. It was strange to feel a sense of longing for how things used to be at the 141 as he observed their interactions. He despised it. “Are you up to catch a drink with me?”

König glanced over at Horangi. He wanted to lay down. His limbs felt like they were being weighed down by gravity, and his body ached, but he found he didn’t exactly want to be alone right now like usual.

He nodded. “Ja, I would be happy to accompany you.”

Horangi smiled, his eyes crinkling like the fact König wanted to spend time with him was some kind of blessing. “Great. I’ll meet you at the rec room in fifteen?”

“Ja, that will be fine.”

“Alright, see you soon, Chingu.” Horangi said and sped up his pace, making a break for the direction of their shared room—no doubt going to change.

König nodded in affirmation and as he began walking toward the entrance himself, he felt it—an undeniable sensation that someone was watching him. He glanced to his side and met the piercing gaze of Nikto, who followed closely behind. He was the embodiment of calm, his strides deliberate and relaxed, the heavy boots of his combat gear barely making a sound on the tarmac. It was almost as if everything that happened on the mission had failed to touch him.

It was strange.

However, it wasn’t surprising that Nikto’s gaze found its way to König once again. König had started to become accustomed to the Russian’s watchful eye, after all, but tonight it felt more intense—like Nikto was trying to pry open something hidden deep within König. It made his skin crawl.

König shot a glance back at Nikto. “What?” he asked, somewhat defensively.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦?

Nikto didn’t flinch. “Just observing,” he replied in his trademark low tone, devoid of any particular emotion. “Your behavior is unusual,” Nikto continued, as if this was the most obvious revelation in the world.

𝘜𝘯𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭?

König furrowed his brow, clenching and unclenching his hand. Surely he couldn’t mean—𝘯𝘰. What was unusual was Nikto—the man made no sense. Not him.

The duo got closer to the entrance, König noticed that many of the other soldiers they’d passed had taken glimpses their way, but Nikto remained unperturbed, his focus solely on König.

“Unusual?” König questioned. He didn’t like where this was going. “What about you? You’re the one who didn’t seem to care.”

“Care?” Nikto repeated, as if the words were foreign to him. He finally shifted his gaze away, looking straight ahead. “Why should I? I just listen to the voices."

König felt the air grow colder around them.

𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘺?

He took a deep breath. What he was about to do was more than stupid. It was honestly something he’d never do under any other circumstances, but he couldn’t stop now. He just had to rip the band-aid off. If he ended up permanently being stuck in another situation like Ghost’s, so be it. “It’s like you enjoy it,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek. He should shut up. He 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 to shut up. But he needed to know what it was about Nikto that made him feel some strange link towards the man. He felt it out there on the field. He couldn't understand 𝘸𝘩𝘺.

Nikto's head tilted slightly, scanning the path ahead of them—the way one might study a battlefield for later engagement. “Every meession demahnds a level of fokuss. My enjoymendt comes from suhrvival, not kayoss."

That was…not what he was expecting.

“Perheps you are prozhecting.” Nikto continued. His attention returned, the slight crinkle of his eyes hinting at a smirk. “But, then again, you do seem… tense.” His voice was low, almost teasing, underlined with a disarming calm that König found irritating. “Shouldn’t you be relaxing? Ve deed just take down a target."

“Relaxing isn’t in the job description,” König muttered, hoping to deflect. He clenched his jaw, trying to dismiss the unease creeping under his skin. They had accomplished what they set out to do, that was true, but it didn’t erase what he did. It wouldn’t undo their screams, their pain—the 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 he felt.

Nikto cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing, the shadows caused by the light from the outside lamps surrounding the base accentuating the sharp angles of his mask. He looked almost predatory as he regarded König—like he was sizing him up for a moment of weakness. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 seemed relaxed out there,” he replied.

König felt his blood run cold at those words. No. Don’t say that. You don’t know anything about—

“Y’know, you should learn to embrahce it more. It'll make the next meession eassier,” Nikto continued easily. Like it wasn’t some absurd suggestion.

König bit his tongue, tasting iron as he felt the annoying itch crawling under his skin intensify.

What did he know?

“Embrace it?” König repeated, incredulously. “What are you talking about?” He couldn’t grant Nikto the confirmation he wanted. He just 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵.

With a casual shrug, Nikto continued to walk beside him, unfazed by König’s attempt to play dumb. “It is just a part of the job. You can't let what happens on the field consuhme you.”

“It doesn’t work that way.’—𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸—König muttered under his breath, almost wishing he hadn’t. He couldn’t put his finger on what made Nikto so unflinchingly devoid of any emotion other than content out on the field. It infuriated him. And he couldn't understand what the Russian was trying to get at. Why did he care if he let himself lose control on the field or not? If he enjoyed what he did out there? Why would he even want him to let go?

“You look at me as if I'm a puzzle needing to be solhved,” Nikto speculated, aware of König's inner turmoil and perhaps toying with it. “You can relax, I'm not that complihcated.”

And there it was, the ghost of a challenge in his tone. It was maddening. König glanced at him, anger boiling to the surface. “You should stop staring. It's unnatural.”

A slow smile broke out across Nikto’s face under the mask. "I'm just intrigued by the vay you overthink everythihng.”

König felt his blood begin to sizzle in his veins—making him want to pick open his flesh and scratch until the annoyance went away—as they approached the entrance to the base. He wanted to retort, to push back, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Nikto saw through the walls he had built around himself. He could say it was for comfort, to protect himself from others, but the truth nagged at him: he feared what was on the other side of those walls. He feared letting others 𝘴𝘦𝘦 what resided behind them. And Nikto was getting too close.

As they stepped inside, the soft buzz of fluorescent lights washed over them, the familiarity of the base swallowing König’s unease momentarily. He turned to look at Nikto, who still wore that bloody-easy smile under the mask, unperturbed and unconcerned.

“What do you know about me?” König asked, more defensively than he would’ve liked. He hated how Nikto seemed to see right through him. 𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 him. It wasn’t right.

“You have voices too,” Nikto replied simply, his grin widening as he stepped into the bustle of soldiers.

König stood there frozen, unsure of what to say to that. The weight of Nikto’s words lingered like a heavy fog. König felt a chill seep into his bones as the reality of the situation set in. Nikto knew how much of a sick bastard he was. Hell, he 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 that part of him. Wanted him to 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 it.

König wanted to puke.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dull thud of his heart echoed in his ears as he stood in the empty hallway. Horangi had been excited at the prospect of unwinding at the bar, enjoying a few drinks with König after their first mission together since König's return. Maybe even doing a little gambling on tonight's horse race (not that anyone but him had to know that). However, it became clear rather quickly that wouldn't be tonight's course of events. Which saved his wallet, sure, but compared to what he was doing now, he’d rather lose all his money.

He’d been waiting for König to come down to the rec room for about ten minutes past their scheduled meet-up, and there had been no sign of him. Along with the knowledge that for the past few days there's been a tension radiating from König, this told him something was off. His gut was practically screaming at him that the Austrian was struggling with something, and it had felt unbearably heavy in the air. So, like the best friend he was, he found himself making a break for their shared room, now standing outside their door, hoping that König was inside and simply didn’t realize he was late.

With an inhale that turned into a soft sigh, Horangi knocked gently on the door. "König? You in dere? We were supposed to go grab some drinks, remember?"

There was no immediate response. Horangi's worries only intensified as he turned the doorknob, finding it unexpectedly unlocked. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room.

The sight that greeted him made his heart sink in his chest. König sat on the edge of his bed, his shoulders slumped forward, hands clasped tightly between his knees, staring at the floor as if it held the secrets to the universe. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line under the hood, and the subtle tremble in his frame betrayed the calm façade he often wore.

“König?” Horangi’s voice broke the silence, filled with a mix of concern and gentleness. “Hey, Chingu, what are you doing in here?”

König didn’t respond, his gaze glued to the floor. The stillness of the room felt heavy, suffocating. Horangi could see the muscles in König's back tighten even further, a clear sign that something was bothering him.

Shit.

Concerned, Horangi sat beside him, keeping a respectful distance but close enough to show he was there, unwavering. "What’s going on? You’ve been off lately," he asked, keeping his voice light.

At first, König didn’t respond, the tension pulling at his muscles as he avoided eye contact. The silence stretched between them, thick and unescapable, as if it were a physical barrier. Horangi remained patient, hoping to coax his friend out of his shell, acutely aware of how hard it was for König to let anyone in. He knew he had to come at this carefully; trying to force the information out of König wouldn’t work, and making him feel like he was under a spotlight would only worsen things.

Finally, after a moment, König let out a shaky breath, lifting his gaze slightly. "I… I don't know, Horangi," he mumbled, fingers tightening around the fabric of his pants, a clear sign of his discomfort. It made Horangi want to wrap König up in bubble wrap so he’d be protected from the world. He was far too precious for this universe. "I just—" König stopped, words trapped in his throat, his eyes flicking away again.

"Whatever it is, you can talk to me," Horangi said gently, taking off his sunglasses so that König could see the sincerity in his eyes. "You know dat. We’re a team."

König took a shuddering breath, and Horangi could see the struggle play out across the muscles of his shoulders. "I just… I thought I could handle it," König muttered, his voice low and strained.

"Handle what?" Horangi pressed, watching as König clenched and unclenched his fists. Horangi's mind wandered for a moment to the picture he’d found a few days ago, when König had been tense just like right now. This had something to do with when he was loaned to the 141, he was sure of it.

"I let myself get too close to…𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦, over at the 141…”

𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘵, Horangi silently thought, a small pang of irritation sparking within him. Just what happened over there to force König into this state?

“It was like they could see right through me." König paused, swallowing hard. "I thought it would go away once I left, this sense of…𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨. I thought people would stop seeing through me."

Horangi felt the weight of König's confession settle in the pit of his stomach. He knew the weight of those words all too well; the paralyzing fear of attachment in a world that seemed fraught with inevitable loss. "It’s okay to connect with others, König. You’re allowed to feel something for them."

König’s jaw clenched, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "No, it’s not. You don’t get it. I’m…not like them," he muttered, trying to shake off the weight that pressed down on him. He let his head drop again, his voice trembling. "And I don’t like how easily they see through me. How 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 is seeing through me. I hate it. I hate that they can read me like an open book." 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐’𝘮 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.

Horangi nodded slowly, scared that any moment König would completely shut down. He had to be careful with what he said next, because if he didn’t, there was no telling what effect it could have on König. "You’re not alone in this, you know? We all feel it. It’s hard to be vulnerable."

"This is not the same," König persisted, despair knotting his voice. Horangi didn’t know. He couldn’t understand. He just couldn’t. "I never meant to let them in, but now…" König paused, as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. "Now I feel... exposed."

Horangi’s heart broke at those words. "König, it’s okay to be vulnerable with the people who care about you. We’re here for you. You can talk to me. You don’t have to face this alone."

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of their breathing. König’s shoulders were still tense, but Horangi could see the battle waging within him. Finally, with a deep exhale, König glanced sidelong at Horangi, his voice murky with unshed emotion. "It doesn’t matter anymore. I made them hate me," he admitted.

With a tender hand, Horangi placed it on König’s back, a comforting gesture. "Every connection carries risk, but it also brings strength. You’re one of the strongest people I know, König. Let me help you. I’m sure you didn’t ruin—"

“You’re 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨,” König said, his voice scarily devoid of any emotion. His throat tightened, a swell of conflicting feelings roiling within him. He wouldn’t let himself be lied to. He knew the truth. The sad, ugly truth. One he wished didn't exist.

“What do you mean? Why do you say dat?” Horangi lightly pressed. This was serious—much more serious than he thought.

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥?

“I can’t…” König closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He shouldn’t be telling Horangi any of this. This was all a mistake. But he couldn’t take it back now. Dammit.

“Hey, it's ok, Chingu. You don’t have to tell me just…I’m sure whatever you think you did isn’t dat bad.“

"I just hate feeling so exposed," König finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He needed to change the topic. If Horangi learned about Soap and Ghost…he was sure to leave too. König just…he couldn’t handle that. Not right now. It would happen one day, but he couldn’t let that be today.

"You’re safe here with me, König," Horangi assured him, warmth flowing through his words. "You don’t have to bear it alone. You never do. I promise."

“Maybe,” König relented, but his voice was laced with frustration. “But it’s different for me. I’m not used to this. I…” Should he admit it? It was a risk. A high one. But maybe if he did it would make Horangi more inclined to drop this conversation. “only really let you in.” He finally met Horangi’s gaze, the dark depths of his eyes swirling with an emotional storm. “And I can’t help but feel like I’m losing control. I don’t want to care so much—”

“Why not?” Horangi pressed gently, sensing that König’s defenses were beginning to crack.

“Because it hurts, Horangi!” König shot back, the rawness in his tone making Horangi flinch. “Watching people you care about go through hell… or worse.” He rubbed a hand over his face, frustration resonating in waves off of him. “Causing people who care about you pain. I just can’t, I—” 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦—𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳. ”can't afford to lose anyone else.”

Horangi paused, letting König’s admission settle in the air between them. It hung in the room like the knowledge of an enemy waiting on the other side of a door ready to kill you without a moment's hesitation—engulfing them entirely. Horangi hesitated for a moment and then moved his hand to rest on König’s shoulder. “You…you don’t have to carry dat weight alone. You know dat, right?”

König’s breathing hitched as he held back a wave of emotions that threatened to spill over. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face that reality,” he admitted. “It’s easier to not get attached.”

“But those walls will only keep you isolated. You’re stronger when you let people in, König. I want to be there for you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

König inhaled sharply, his guard slipping just a fraction more. “I don’t want to burden you.”

“You’re not a burden,” Horangi said firmly. “We’re a team. You’re my friend. 𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘬 to me, please.”

König’s shoulders slumped as he finally let out a shaky breath. It felt, in that moment, like a dam breaking. “I just… I care too much, and it terrifies me.”

Horangi nodded, understanding reflected in his eyes. “Then let’s face that fear together. We all care, König. That’s what makes us human. You don’t have to be alone in this.”

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘋𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍?

“...Ja. You’re right. Dankeschön, Horangi.”

“Of course. I’m always here for you,” Horangi replied, his voice light and accompanied by a small smile. König hated that it was formed on a lie. He hated that he was lying to the Korean in general. But he’d already opened up more than he should’ve and he couldn’t stand being at the center of Horangi’s pity any longer. He just needed today to be over.

“Do we still need to get drinks?” König asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Horangi chuckled. “Of course not. To be honest I was just going to gamble my money away one way or another tonight. I say we both stay in and spare our wallets.”

König hummed. “I should buy a safe for your wallet.”

“...Dat might not be a bad idea.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ᖴOᑌᖇ ᗰOᑎTᕼՏ ᒪᗩTᗴᖇ…

The atmosphere in the debriefing room was tense as Oni stood at the front, a holographic display illuminating the white screen with images of various military installations and suspect locations across Germany. König sat near the end of the table, arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral—though the knot in his stomach betrayed his discomfort.

Roze fidgeted slightly beside him, her sharp eyes darting over the intel projected in front of them. Calisto, Hutch, and Horangi listened intently, while Nikto sat across from König, a twisted shadow of Ghost. All the same unease surrounding him but nonetheless a different masked man. König wanted nothing more than to get up and leave. The last thing he wanted was to deal with whatever new riddle Nikto would throw at him today or give the Russian any possible chance to peer further into what lay behind his walls.

“Listen up, team. Our target is a man named Zaki Valor,” Oni began, the name rolling off his tongue like a bitter pill. He clicked a remote, and a photograph of Zaki materialized on the white screen. “An arms dealer with some significant connections within NATO. He’s recently resurfaced in Berlin and is rumored to have knowledge about a cache of American stolen missiles—highly sensitive material that could change the tide of our current operations.”

König hummed, his eyes tracing the image behind Oni. The man, Zaki, had an athletic build that spoke of years spent in physical activity. His skin, a warm caramel hue, contrasted sharply with the black and vivid colors of various tattoos that snaked across his arms and peeked from beneath the sleeves of his fitted, dark gray T-shirt.

His face was characterized by chiseled cheekbones and a strong jawline dusted with a few days' worth of stubble. His eyes reminded König a lot of El Sin Nombre’s—dark, conveying, and filled with a look that screamed he thought he was better than you. König glanced down at the small file Oni had handed out earlier. He opened it and scanned the pages, taking in any information he could. It seemed Zaki had his claws deep in Western military contracts and underworld dealings. Certainly an interesting one.

“We’ll need to get close, and get the location of the missiles out of him no matter the cost,” Oni continued, voice stern and filled with authority.

Nikto nodded. “What’s our plan for extraction? Zaki von’t be easy to pin down.”

Before Oni could respond, Calisto chimed in as well. “We’ll have to catch him off-guard. He’s been keeping a low profile. He was off the grid for a full year before we picked up signals indicating he's somewhere in Berlin and will no doubt disappear at the slightest hint of suspicion."

Roze leaned back casually, folding her arms over her stomach. “Sounds like a typical rat’s nest. We hit hard, extract fast. If Zaki's worth anything, he’ll sing like a canary.”

Horangi’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward. “But we need to ensure he doesn’t vanish before we get the chance. This mission hinges on him.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Hutch said, smirking. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

“Oh, great. We’re all doomed then,” Roze said, groaning as she tilted her head back in emphasis.

Aksel laughed. “Exactly. At least someone here has common sense.”

“Shut up, both of you!” Hutch said, glaring at Aksel and Roze. His jaw was set tight and his brows were so furrowed you could see a vein popping on his forehead; emphasized by his lack of hair. “I could take you both down easily.”

“Oh please, if I asked you to help optimize the code for an algorithm, you wouldn’t even be able to figure out how to save the file,” Calisto chimed in, rolling her eyes.

“That's false and you know it! If anyone here is incompetent in the tech department it's you with your coding abilities that remind me of an old DOS prompt thrown into an advanced programming contest,” Hutch shot back.

“How dare—”

“That’s enough, all of you!” Oni shouted, his voice resonating off the walls. He glanced around, leveling everyone with a glare. “We don’t have time for your petty squabbles. We have a mission to do and as I was saying, much like Calisto suggested, we'll have to take Zaki by surprise. Which is why we’ve set up a meeting with Zaki pretending to be a potential buyer at an abandoned warehouse near Mitte tomorrow. König—”

At the mention of his name, König quickly focused on Oni, body tensing against his will. Oni turned his gaze towards him, holding it for too long.

“I will need you in the field pretending to be the buyer. You speak German, and your combat skills will be invaluable. If things go south, I trust your instincts. Something we’re going to need considering who we’re working with. Which brings me to the next vital piece of information for this mission.”

Oni took a moment to take a deep breath, eyeing each of them, the silence growing heavy. König’s gaze flickered from face to face. Roze looked committed, Hutch was tapping his fingers with enthusiasm, Horangi was practically on the edge of his seat with curiosity, Calisto fidgeted with a blade, and Nikto looked as composed as ever. Unaffected and cold. They were ready for whatever came next, but König? He felt like he was tied to a boulder, sinking in a sea of dread. Something didn’t feel right. This wasn’t going to end well—he was sure of it.

Oni continued, “The mission is joint. We’ll be collaborating with Task Force 141 on this.”

There it was. The words struck König like a punch to the gut, dragging him back to a time he wanted to forget. Out of instinct, he straightened in his seat, forcing himself to maintain a neutral expression. But inside, the storm was gathering.

“The 141?” Roze repeated, her voice light but curious. “Why them?”

“They’ve been ordered to assist,” Oni responded, unfazed. “It’s a priority for the Coalition, and we need all hands on deck.”

“We just have to keep it professional, right? Get in, get out,” Calisto questioned.

𝘐𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, König silently responded. His body felt cold and disjointed—mind racing; the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of the bond he’d forged with that team. Of Soap and Ghost. He never wanted to see them again. So why? Why did this have to happen?

𝘞𝘩𝘺?

Oni continued the debrief with tactical assignments and further details on the mission plan, but in König’s ears, the words blurred into a distant echo. As the team dispersed to prepare, he remained seated, staring at the file sprawled in front of him. An intricate web of cities and people marked the potential path to the missiles, but all he could think about was what awaited him: a reunion he never wanted, a haunting past ready to surface.

“Hey, you’re good with this, right?” Horangi whispered, clearly concerned. He was looking right at him with a small frown, his eyes searching. König wanted to bash his head against the table.

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

König forced a nod. “Ja.”

But as he pushed away from the table, the knowledge of what was about to happen ate away at him, tearing him apart. If he had any hope of moving past this, he’d have to confront the light—the very light that came from a team he thought he’d left behind. He sighed deeply, feeling the weight of everything that lay ahead and the unresolved feelings entwined with T.F. 141.

With one last lingering glance at the briefing room, König turned and walked into the realities of a mission he could never quite escape, knowing full well that the ghosts of the past were ready to walk beside him, whether he wanted them there or not.

He was going to see Soap and Ghost again.

There was no way out.

𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engines drowned out all other sounds as the air transport descended, powerful whips of wind circling around the aircraft. Roze leaned against the window, her eyes scanning the vicinity. There was something almost electric in the air; the anticipation of a new assignment mixed with an undercurrent of stress that seemed to blanket everything.

Beside her, Calisto was tightening her gear, her usual calm demeanor fraught with a tinge of anxiety, and who could blame her? KorTac and the 141 were going to be working together.

It was absurd.

These were people they’d fought against, gotten scars from, and here they were coming to work 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 them for something as stupid as the higher ups trying to strengthen bonds between factions. There was no telling how this could play out.

They were already on edge having to work with the 141, but now adding in the disadvantage of having to come to T.F. 141’s base—𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺—to say tensions were high would be putting it nicely.

“So, König,” Roze started, her gaze now fixated on the Austrian sitting across from her—the only one who actually had any personal experience with their new ‘allies’.

Since they boarded König had been uncharacteristically tense, his posture straight as a board, hands tightly fisted together, and his eyes fixed to the ground.

No signs of movement.

It wasn’t unusual for König to be tense, but it wasn't like this. It was more like first performance jitters—a bouncing leg, his hand fidgeting with a glove or his eyes glancing around the carrier. Not…𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. It was certainly interesting. Maybe even worrying. “You’ve worked with these people before, anything we should know?”

König took a moment, but slowly he raised his head to meet Roze’s gaze. She instantly felt a shiver course throughout her entire body. His eyes were like a sharks: lifeless, cold, devoid of any emotion. A black hole swallowing up everything remotely human. She hated looking into them. The guy was a monster.

“Nein, they are just as Oni explained,” König answered, his voice low and monotone. Another odd behavior. He was usually soft spoken on the rare occasion he spoke, words wavering and sounding unsure. The only exception was when he was on the field or around Horangi.

𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.

“Really? Nothing that could give us an advantage over them?”

König nodded. “They’re no different from their files. The only piece of information I could provide is that they are loyal. They won’t abandon one of their own.”

Roze hummed, a small smirk forming across her face. “I think that’s all the information we need,” she replied, the glint in her eyes making a chill run down König’s spine.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯?

Before he could dwell on it further, his stomach looping into knots at the mere implication of that look, the transport landed with a gut-wrenching jolt. The team stirred, poised for immediate action as the engines whined down.

Without a word more everyone stood and began to make their way onto the tarmac, where the 141 awaited them—all except for König. He stayed seated for a moment, his heart hammering in his ears. He wanted to stay there for the rest of his life, far away from what lay ahead. To run. To hide. But he couldn’t.

It didn’t matter how it felt like if he took a step off of the transport, the world would disappear beneath his feet, and he’d be thrown into the fiery pits of hell where he’d always belonged. That every bad thing he’s ever done in life would come after him like a wraith searching for revenge. He deserved what was to come, and life would never be so courteous as to allow him to evade his retribution anyway.

So, with a deep breath, he stood and followed the rest of his team.

Roze stepped out first, her eyes darting around, while Calisto followed, readjusting the straps of her gear. They were flanked by Horangi and Nikto, and behind them trailed Hutch and Aksel, the latter of whom squinted at the brightness outside, thinking maybe he should steal Hutch’s sunglasses.

"Welcome to 141," Hutch muttered, glancing around at the fortified structures that stood against the bright evening sky. It was big. Way bigger than the rumors suggested. It pissed him off more than he’d like to admit. Of course, their base had to one-up theirs.

König took a moment to survey the area, his nerves radiating with an itch he couldn’t escape. He could feel it increase with every step that took him closer to his impending doom, thick like the heavy clouds that sometimes rolled over KorTac’s base.

As he got closer he saw far too familiar figures standing before him, all clad in tactical gear. Price stepped forward, an air of authority radiating off of him. “Glad to see you all made it in one piece. The name's Captain Price,” he said, his eyes scanning over the newcomers.

König couldn’t focus on him for long, however—a woman he didn’t recognize at first caught his eye. She leaned against a wall behind Price, arms crossed and observing, and for a split second he thought maybe she was the one who replaced him.

That 𝘴𝘩𝘦 could be the one who was now Ghost and Soap’s new fixation.

It made something deep inside him twist uncomfortably, but just as quickly as the thought came, it was wiped away as he took in her appearance—short, light brunette hair pulled into a low-hanging bun accompanied by bangs, a short, agile build, and blue eyes. It was 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? He silently questioned. König may have only seen the woman once, but he knew she wasn’t military. At least not in the way he was. Something wasn’t right, but what? He couldn’t say for sure.

Meanwhile Gaz, Roach, Soap, and Ghost stood a few paces behind Price, their demeanors clearly at odds.

Gaz and Roach were relaxed, body language mostly welcoming with a subtle hint that they were ready to fight at a moment's notice if things were to go haywire. Soap was apprehensive and closed off, so different from the welcoming Scotsman who greeted König almost over a year ago, while Ghost’s body language betrayed the discomfort he felt at seeing König again—his shoulders wound tight, eyes more venomous than usual, and arms crossed tightly. It physically hurt König to even glance at them.

Price turned to the Austrian. “Welcome back, König,” Price said, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m glad to see you again.”

König quickly tensed, his eyes darting over to focus on Price. He took a moment, acutely aware of his teammate's eyes on him, before he nodded, coming to stand before the captain. He extended a hand.

“Ja, it’s certainly a pleasure, sir,” he greeted, silently grateful his voice came out level. He was quick to move away once the handshake was done, not wanting to intrude on Price’s personal space any longer than necessary (or be even remotely as close to Soap and Ghost as Price was).

“Quite the welcome party we got here,” Hutch quipped, breaking through some of the tension with a joke as he glanced around.

Gaz chuckled, though the laughter was strained. “Aye, we know how to treat guests. We weren’t raised in a barn after all.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Hutch muttered, pointedly looking Gaz up and down. Gaz clenched his jaw, eyes slightly narrowing.

A silence settled as the group let those words linger between them, standing there eyeing one another. Gaz fixed his gaze on the man who had spoken, and vice versa, absorbing every detail he could about the other soldier. He was ripped; Gaz would give the guy that and an American if the flag plastered on the front of his armored vest meant anything.

It explained so much. The guy was practically destined to be an asshole. It didn’t help that he was an obvious show boat as well with the way he made sure to accentuate his biceps—wearing a black tank top to show off his muscles. The damn thing was so skinny it was nearly completely hidden behind his vest which, by the way, was littered with what looked like thousands of military standard gadgets ranging from glow sticks to grenades (it was ridiculous if you asked Gaz).

The rest of his outfit was slightly more understandable though—black elbow guards, a pair of orangish-red headphones that completely covered his ears, the usual Tac clothing you’d see on a soldier, and sunglasses.

All in all, other than the fact that the man could probably bench press a bus or two and had shit manners, there wasn’t really anything that seemed to stand out about the guy. He could use a friendly tip on how not to carry everything he owns on him, though. Gear like that would weigh you down easily. Information Gaz planned to keep stored away for later.

Just in case.

Beside Gaz, Roach eyed a broad-shouldered Norwegian—using a flag on the man's sleeve to come to the conclusion he was from Norway—with a rugged build. He had a thick balbo beard and dark brown hair hidden behind a helmet that covered most of his face, which had translucent eye guards attached, concealing piercing blue eyes that looked to be on high alert—someone who never let their guard down. Something to keep in mind for sure.

However, that didn’t excuse the fact he was in dire need of a lesson on how to come across as more friendly, in Roach’s humble opinion.

The guy, Aksel, as Roach just discovered from a nearly hidden sewn-on tag located on his vest behind a radio, looked like he hadn’t experienced a day of joy in his life. Like, seriously, would it kill him not to frown? Even just a small widening of his eyes would help.

Roach didn’t get to focus on Aksel’s quite frankly unsavory demeanor for long however, instead becoming acutely aware of the eyes boring into him.

He glanced over and saw a woman of average height with a slim, agile build. She had dark hair tied back in a slick bun, a defined nose, fair complexion, and sharp, blue eyes that were piercing through him. Her name was Calisto according to the tag that was sewn onto her grey spandex that, just like Aksel’s, was nearly hidden. Only this time it was by her black, bodark load bearing vest straps.

𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺, Roach silently noted.

She sort of reminded him of a Cane Corso—confident, dangerous, and ready to strike at any moment. Beside her was a woman with long, dark brown hair tied in a braid with lengthy bangs swished to the side. He couldn’t tell what her name was; she had a scarf wrapped around her neck along with a vest that concealed the area where a name tag would usually be.

However, what he could say for sure was that she looked like she’d seen a phantom. And in a way, he supposed she did when he followed her line of sight. She was staring eye-to-eye with Ghost.

Roach felt a shiver run down his spine. He couldn’t be paid enough to swap places with her.

Ever.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roze’s pulse quickened as she caught the skull-faced soldier's eyes. It was Ghost, no doubt about that. His presence was overwhelming, unnerving, and quite frankly terrifying—sending warning signs flashing throughout her mind.

The cold, emotionless mask he wore was a stark reminder of his ruthless reputation—a soldier who could hunt you down and execute you before you even knew he was there. A children's nightmare and a soldier's reason to wet their pants.

Somehow, his eyes were worse than König’s. It was like he could see through you, and if you stared for too long you’d be engulfed by those eyes and become nothing more than a distant memory. You were insignifigant in their wake, forever wanting to cower away.

Although, they weren’t settled on her as she first thought. No, they were settled on something behind her. On instinct she glanced behind her shoulder, unsure of what she was going to see, only to spot an all too familiar Austrian standing there, eyes pointedly looking anywhere but at Ghost.

How strange.

𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰? She silently questioned. 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳?

It probably was. So the question remained: what happened between them? There were thousands of possibilities, but what one was the right one? Did Ghost simply not like König? Did he feel intimidated by him? Could it be that they got into a fight? It didn’t seem like Ghost was all too friendly. But what could they have possibly faught—

Someone cleared their throat, snapping Roze’s attention back toward Ghost’s direction.

“Well, I’d say we’ve all had enough with this starin’, aye?” A Scottish voice suddenly boomed. It was John MacTavish. Aka Soap. He was looking around the group with a friendly smile, taking in all of their reactions before he turned to look at König. “Glad to see ya again, 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘨𝘶𝘺,” he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm barely hidden beneath layers of joy. “It’s been awhile. Life treatin’ ya good back at KorTac?”

König’s whole body seemed to fight to fold in on itself, but he barely managed to keep his body posture from changing. He wouldn’t cower away from this. He deserved it.

“Ja, life has been…fine.”

Soap’s eyes seemed to darken at those words, but before he could say anything else, he was stopped by Gaz interjecting.

“Man, don’ forget to say hi to me ya big lug!” the Brit joked, a huge smile plastered across his face. “It really is good t’ see ya again, König.” He elbowed Roach. “How bout’ you? Ya happy to see im’?”

Roach chuckled. “O’ course. I’ve been dyin’ to spar against him again, after all.”

Gaz laughed and the sound relaxed a small part of König. He’d missed the Brit more than he’d ever thought he could. That laugh was soothing in a way, like when his mother used to hum while bandaging the cuts and bruises he’d get from bullies at school. She never judged, only called him over in a soft tone to sit on her bed as she went to get the med kit. It always made him feel better. If only things could’ve stayed like that—happy, comforting, and pain free.

“Ya hear tha’ König?” Gaz asked. “Looks like you're gonna ave’ to knock Roach on his arse again.”

Before König could form a response, Soap interrupted, scoffing as he rolled his eyes. He stepped forward like he was about to challenge König, the implication of Soap getting closer instantly puting König back on edge, his shoulders furrowing and legs tensing with the urge to take a step back. Like an animal that found itself cornered by a predator. “I’m sure König doesn’t want to waste his val—”

But before Soap could get close, Nikto was suddenly there, stepping in front of the Scotsman with an intensity that caught everyone off guard. The air chilled, and Soap faltered, a small frown forming across his face. Nikto leveled a piercing glare at him, his expression inscrutable beneath the shadows of his mask but leaving a clear message: now was not the time.

Soap hesitated, confusion and annoyance flickering across his features before he took a cautious step back. “Right. Okay.” His voice was laced with a hint of disbelief as he glanced at Nikto, who remained immovable.

König eyed Nikto, a questioning look in his gaze, but the masked operator simply stood his ground. The silence was insufferable, heavy with unspoken words.

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨? König silently questioned. The last thing he needed was Nikto making things worse on this mission—with 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱.

Horangi shuffled closer to König, quickly coming to diffuse the situation. “Uh, sorry about dat,” he finally said, breaking the tension. He eyed the Russian quizzically as he spoke. “Nikto has his… uh… quirks.”

“Quirks,” Ghost muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as he re-crossed his arms. He was closer now, no doubt having been ready to take Nikto down. “Tha’s one way of puttin’ it.”

“Tha’s enough, all O’ you,” Price commanded, his voice dripping with authority. “We've got a mission to do. We ain't 'ere to play defense. Now let's get to the briefing room," Price continued, breaking the palpable tension. "We've got objectives to discuss, an’ I can assure you lot, we need to be a team right now. Division will only lead to failure."

Everyone didn’t move for a second, each high-strung and ready to fight, but soon enough Horangi made the first move (once again being the peacekeeper) and gave a friendly tap to König’s shoulder as he walked past.

“Right then, everyone, you heard Captain Price; let's get moving.”

König hesitated a moment, looking at Horangi and seemingly searching for something, before nodding. “Ja.”

And just like a switch had been flipped, everyone from KorTac backed down, beginning to move towards the base and ignoring the stares from 141.

For now, the focus had to shift, but they could all feel the undercurrents lingering. It was only a matter of time before something happened. They just had to hold out until then; there was a bigger objective they all needed to focus on. Not past experiences or envy.

Quickly 141 followed suit, taking the lead and heading towards the base’s entrance.

There was only one thing on the forefront of everyone's mind as they walked, the only thing agreeable among such opposites:

This was not going to be an easy mission.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hum of the air transport’s engines was a low, constant drone, vibrating through the steel frames and echoing dimly in the confined space.

Gaz settled into his seat, feeling the familiar weight of his gear pressing against him. It was a small comfort, grounding even. Something that was desperately needed in these hostile times.

He glanced around, observing the members of the two teams forced together and the cause for said hostility. KorTac on one side, Task Force 141 on the other. The tension was palpable, thick enough to slice through with a knife.

Across from him, König sat with his shoulders hunched, fists clenched around his M4A1, and eyes glued to the ground. While he’d once joined in on movie nights and bantered with them, his demeanor had shifted upon his return.

König now gave off an air of caution, as if he was walking on eggshells, and for the life of him Gaz couldn’t figure out why. Things had been going good before König left, so why was it now that he was finally back things were worse than when he first joined the 141? It didn’t make any sense.

Sure, things weren’t exactly sunshine and rainbows between their respective teams, shown with how, beside König, his entire team was essentially a brick wall.

Roze and Calisto (who Gaz now knew the names of thanks to the briefing earlier) engaged in a quiet conversation, whispering like conspirators, while Horangi inspected his weapons with the meticulous care of a surgeon. Nikto, a near copy of Ghost which was in all honesty terrifying, observed them all with an ever-watchful eye. Hutch, with an impatient sigh, cracked his knuckles, and Aksel stared out a window, clearly trying to distract himself from the tension wafting through the air. None of them bothered to so much as start a friendly conversation outside of their own team. Completely closed off.

But just because things weren’t peachy between their teams didn’t mean König had to feel unwelcome with 141. He was always going to be a part of T.F. 141. No matter what. Even if KorTac and them weren’t exactly what you’d call friendly with one another.

Although it didn’t help to get that point across when a certain duo, in the nicest terms possible, were being complete assholes. At the front of the cabin, Ghost and Soap exchanged heated glances, their body language portraying an unspoken argument. They were an entirely different problem Gaz couldn’t seem to solve. Out of everyone, he’d thought they’d (mostly Soap) be the happiest to see König. Yet instead the opposite seemed to be happening.

Gaz watched the way Ghost’s hands fisted into balls, then tightened as he stole a glance at König and how Soap, usually the loudest one in a room, was quite and stealing glances over at König only to quickly look away, his eyes seemingly fighting to roll with annoyance before looking back at Ghost.

The air was thick with accusations and an unfiltered bitterness that threatened to crack like glass, and Gaz, for the life of him, couldn’t decipher why.

Laswell, seated directly next to Price, tried to break the silence and (having picked up on the same tension Gaz had) keep that glass from shattering.

“Listen up everyone, I get this arrangement isn’t the most favored, but we need to focus on the mission. I don’t want there to be any personal feelings getting in the way once we land, understood?” she stated firmly, but her eyes flickered toward König, trying to gauge the frost hanging between him and the others.

It was certainly an unexpected turn of events. From what Price had informed, things had gone well with König’s stay at 141. Much better than they had hoped. So why did it seem most of the friction between KorTac and 141 revolved around him? Something didn’t add up. She just couldn’t figure out what.

She hated it.

If there was one thing in the world that irked her it was not knowing the answer to something.

When no one responded right away to Laswell’s little speech, Price sighed, wearing an expression of what could only be described as a tired dad. “This coalition is vital,” he added. “We need everyone to be on the same page, an’ tha’ especially includes...” He shot a pointed look at Ghost and Soap, “any unresolved issues. 𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥?”

“Yes, sir,” everyone said in nearly perfect unison (finally without hesitation), but Gaz noticed how Price’s words seemed to put Soap and Ghost further on edge.

The tension was palpable, almost a living thing, wrapping itself around them all like a thick fog. Price and Laswell tried to help, but in the end it only seemed to worsen things for them—for 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨.

It was obvious that this was going to be the worst flight Gaz’s ever been on, and that was saying something considering he’s hung out of a bloody helicopter before.

He huffed, leaning back in his seat as he felt a headache begin to form.

Just great.

As if things couldn’t get worse for him.

Meanwhile, as Gaz sulked, Laswell looked between the soldiers residing within the aircraft's cabin and observed how each one showed little receptiveness to her and Price’s words. Most seemed to have hardly reacted, going about what they had been doing moments prior, albeit more rigidly. Each uncaring. She sighed and leaned forward.

This was going to take some work.

“Look, I know most of you are rolling your eyes and don’t give a shit about anything John and I just said, however, we need to be a cohesive unit today. Whatever history you have with any of the members here 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 stay off the battlefield,” she said, her voice steady and stern, leaving no room for argument.

“Right, because that’s super easy when he’s practically sittin’ on a throne over there.” Soap muttered, glaring at König. “A 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 who could care less bout’ the lowly peasants around im’.”

König’s shoulders stiffened (obviously having heard Soap despite the aircrafts engines nearly drowning out his words), and Gaz caught a brief flash of betrayal in his eyes before he steeled himself and looked back to the ground. He couldn’t remember a time where König looked so…𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵. It made a small simmer of irritation build up under Gaz’s skin.

What the fuck was Soap’s problem?

Before Gaz could think of something to diffuse the situation, change the topic, maybe even yell at Soap, Horangi spoke up, his voice low but penetrating the tension.

“Laswell makes a good point. We’re all here for a reason. Let’s not start dividing ourselves now. The enemy won’t care about our petty squabbles,” a pointed look filled with hostility toward Soap, “so cut the crap.”

König, who was getting sick of all the tip-toeing around the issue at hand, finally lifted his head, the spotlight falling on him. His voice rumbled low, “He’s right. I’m here to do a job. We all are. I don’t wish for my presence here,” a small moment of hesitation, as though his next words were an afterthought, “or my teams to cause any issues.”

“Then you should’ve stayed at KorTac,” Soap replied, voice clipped. The air transport lurched slightly, as if jolting in response to the brewing conflict, and Gaz felt a tension rise within him. Why was Soap doing this? What was even going 𝘰𝘯? “We were doing just fine without you,” Soap continued—his words dripped with venom. “So why don’t you leave just like you did last time? You were so 𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 to before.”

Calisto, who had been listening and growing tired of the petty squabbling, let out a hysterical snort. “Is that what this is about? Your little feelings are hurt? Upset because he left you to come back to KorTac? Sors d'ici!^[17] How pathetic can you be? He had a mission, Soap. He’s part of KorTac, first and foremost; it's not like he abandoned you.”

“As if you know shite abou—” Soap started, his voice rising slightly, only to be cut off by Laswell.

“That's enough, all of you! I know things have changed and clearly some of you have things that require 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 discussions. But you all need to put that aside and 𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴.”

Price shifted in his seat, voice steady and authoritative. “Laswell’s right. We ave’ a job to do. The moment we step off this transport, we stop bein’ KorTac an’ 141. We’re one unit, 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝘁?”

“Yes, sir,” everyone said in near perfect unison and with that, everyone fell into a tense silence, the energy in the cabin shifting slightly, like a storm receding just enough for a breath of fresh air to filter in.

Gaz glanced at Soap, who was now visibly clenching and unclenching his fists. The war between him and König felt like an electric charge in the air. Soap had been the one closest to König, and now he was the most hostile and on edge because of the Austrian’s reappearance. Gaz could see it—a mix of hurt, anger and betrayal playing across Soap’s features. He just couldn’t figure out 𝙬𝙝𝙮.

He sighed and turned his gaze to the window, watching the landscape blur by beneath them. He thought about the mission, the importance of their cooperation, and how easily everything could go to shit if unchecked feelings boiled over. Then he thought about all the insufferable silences, heated glares, and constant repeats of talk involving working together.

How the hell were they going to survive this? They couldn’t even get along for a simple hour and a half flight.

They were officially fucked.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱," Price’s voice crackled through their earpieces, steady and commanding. "𝘡𝘢𝘬𝘪 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯."

The air was heavy with anticipation, only the sound of distant traffic disturbing the quiet night as KorTac and 141 waited in an alley just outside the designated warehouse set to be the meeting place with Zaki Valor.

“𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢’,” Ghost responded, his tone low and gravelly. Any hint of anger or hostility gone in favor of focusing on the mission. “𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.”

"𝘙𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦—𝘸𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘡𝘢𝘬𝘪 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦," Laswell said through the comms, voice calm and collected.

Gaz leaned against the small ledge of the roof he and Roach were stationed at, a smirk dancing on his lips. “𝘙𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘕𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘡𝘢𝘬𝘪, 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘣 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯’ 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘌𝘢𝘴𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?” He teased through the comms.

“𝘚𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘦,” Laswell shot back, her tone laced with dry humor. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘏𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥.”

“𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘢’𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮, 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱! 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦, 𝘺𝘢? 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯, 𝘢𝘷𝘦’ 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥?” Gaz, with a cheeky grin, asked as he glanced at Roach, who rolled his eyes before turning back to scouting the area.

“𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘢 ‘𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬,’ 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦.” Roach retorted, a small smirk forming on his lips.

Gaz gasped, glaring at Roach. “𝘛𝘩𝘢’𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦.”

“𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳,” Laswell cut in, her own smirk forming. It was too much fun messing with Gaz sometimes. “𝘉𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘞𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘭.”

“𝘖𝘩, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯. 𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴, 𝘐 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬!” Gaz replied, his tone coming across as a whine. “𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘺?”

Laswell rolled her eyes, though a hint of a smile crossed her lips. “𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥.”

“𝘋𝘰𝘯’ 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘯,” Price joined in, his voice teasing and slightly cracked through the comms.

“𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢, 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯.”

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩, 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭,” Gaz said, a wide smirk forming on his lips. “𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸.”

“𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵’ 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨; 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯’ 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘦𝘳𝘦’,” Price reminded him. “𝘞𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢’ 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴-𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴.”

“𝘈𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘈𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘯’ 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘰𝘺, 𝘺’𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸,” Gaz replied, feigning disappointment. “𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘥𝘰𝘯’ 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬?”

“𝘌𝘢𝘴𝘺: 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘢 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮,” Laswell suggested, her tone teasing yet purposeful. “𝘖𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥… 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰.”

“𝘋𝘰𝘯’ 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘮’ 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭,” Price sighed.

“𝘏𝘢! 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘳𝘦’ 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘖’ 𝘮𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴!” Gaz joked. “𝘞𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯. 𝘔𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺.”

“𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵. 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵, 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬, 𝘵𝘰𝘰?” Laswell quipped, smirking over at Price who was shaking his head exasperatedly. “𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳: 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.”

“𝘖𝘩, 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢’, 𝘮𝘢’𝘢𝘮.” Gaz replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“𝘏𝘦𝘺, 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢’𝘢𝘮 𝘮𝘦! 𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

“𝘈’𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘢’𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘸𝘰,” Price interjected. “𝘕𝘰𝘸’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳: 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱, 𝘎𝘢𝘻. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘯’ 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘦.”

Gaz chuckled. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯?”

“𝘕𝘰. 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬.”

“𝘖𝘶𝘤𝘩. 𝘛𝘩𝘢’ 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘴, 𝘴𝘪𝘳.”

“𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘰𝘬 𝘎𝘢𝘻,” Laswell said, voice consoling. “𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦—𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵.”

Gaz smiled, body finally fully relaxing. It was nice being able to banter with Laswell and Price like this. It made the situation they were in that much more bearable. From the way the transport there had gone he’d been worried the entire mission would feel like a vice suffocating him with tension and unease.

“𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘹, 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭.” Gaz responded.

“𝘔𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.”

“𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘵? 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳.” Calisto interrupted, her voice low and underlined by annoyance. She was nestled comfortably in the back of a van just a few meters away from the warehouse. Her computer sat in front of her, screen illuminating her face in a pale blue light as she monitored every camera feed from the perimeter with precision.

She was their eyes in a cybernetic realm, much to Hutch’s disagreement. As far as she was concerned, he could go whine about it to Fender. Between her and him, she was obviously the better choice for this anyway. Although if she’d known there’d be this much talking over the comms, she would’ve let Stiletto come and have Hutch be forced to do all this instead.

Meanwhile, Gaz and Roach were stationed on the rooftops, where they were providing overwatch.

Price, Laswell, and Soap were monitoring comms, while Roze and Hutch helped keep an eye on the perimeter from the ground, covering any blind spots the cameras had.

Aksel, Nikto, and Horangi remained on standby, ready to respond at a moment’s notice, and König, along with (unexpectedly) Ghost, waited inside the warehouse for Zaki to arrive—the skull-masked man insisting on being there when the meeting between Zaki and König took place. No one knew why, but to keep tensions from rising any further, Ghost was allowed to accompany König.

“𝘙𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘹, 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘴,” Horangi responded, his voice making it evident he had a smirk playing on his lips. Honestly he found Gaz quite amusing. It was nice having someone who didn’t let stress control their every waking moment around.

“𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴.” Calisto shot back. “𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘔𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘴-𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘻 𝘚-𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘡𝘢𝘬𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.”

Horangi rolled his eyes. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥’𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘢𝘵.”

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳.”

“𝘈’𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘢’𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.” Price cut in. “𝘞𝘩𝘢’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰?”

“𝘊𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘡𝘢𝘬𝘪’𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦. 𝘏𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘪𝘳. 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.”

“𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢’.”

And with that everyone instantly got into position, each soldier ready to act once the perfect moment presented itself.

From that point on, it was clear that any internal conflict had to be set aside. They all understood that a single misstep could result in someone being sent home in a body bag, and no one wanted to be the unlucky bastard to meet that fate.

Besides, it would be better if everyone got to go back to base 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

A few minutes later, just as Calisto had predicted, a sleek, black Mercedes-Benz S-Class rolled up smoothly.

It only took a few seconds before a man dressed in a dark leather jacket, with slicked-back hair and a confident demeanor, stepped out of the car. He was flanked by two heavily built men, each concealing a weapon.

It was Zaki.

Gaz smirked as he watched Zaki make his way towards the warehouse. Everything was going according to plan. The intel was spot on, everyone was where they needed to be, and there were no civilians around to possibly complicate things.

It was perfect.

And yet, something still didn’t feel right to a certain sergeant.

Calisto teased her lip, her fingers quickly darting across her keyboard as she typed something out. There was a hum from her computer for a solid five seconds before a ding rang throughout the van.

Instantly, iron flooded her mouth as her teeth pierced her bottom lip.

Shit.

𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵.

𝙎𝙃𝙄𝙏.

“𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘡𝘢𝘬𝘪! 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘦!"^[18] Calisto announced through the comms, her teeth clenched as she glared down at her screen showing a photo taken from one of the alley's security cams of the guy walking compared to a photo of Zaki.

He looked the part, there was no denying that, but lacked the small distinctive features of Zaki—the chiseled cheekbones, eyebrow shape, and ear shape. There was even a faint scar that ran across his cheek that Zaki certainly did 𝘯𝘰𝘵 have. “𝘐 𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘡𝘢𝘬𝘪. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘮𝘦𝘯, 𝘌𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘒𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘡𝘢𝘬𝘪’𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘺𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥!“

"𝘚𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘴," Laswell’s voice sliced through the airwaves. "𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨, 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘊𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘒𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴."

“𝘙𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢’,” Ghost replied, his voice a deep rumble. He glanced over at König, his jaw clenching under the mask before he turned back to the warehouse door. “You better not fuck this up,” he murmured, shadows of tension settling lightly over his shoulders.

König’s fists clenched in his hoodie pockets as he eyed Ghost from his periphery. He couldn’t stop the small simmer of anger that coursed through him at those words. He knew things wouldn’t be easy with Ghost, and he supposed he should be grateful the lieutenant didn’t stab him the second he saw him like he knew Ghost wanted to, but that didn’t stop the anger he felt.

Sure, he deserved the glares and any form of anger Soap decided to grant him, and maybe some of the hostility from Ghost was now in some twisted way warranted as well (he didn’t exactly leave in the best way, after all, and he had hurt Soap’s feelings), but the one thing that he didn’t deserve was to be questioned on his abilities in the field. If there was one thing in this world he was good at, it was being a soldier—a 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳. No one would be able to deny him that.

𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦.

“German is my native tongue. You do not need to worry,” König replied, an edge of annoyance in his tone. He wouldn't make a big deal over Ghost’s little comment—he couldn’t allow the man the satisfaction of knowing he was getting under his skin—and honestly, he was tired of being Ghost’s toy.

However, it seemed Ghost wasn’t going to let this go, if the way his jaw clenched tightly and his fists balled up at his sides was any indicator. He looked back at König, eyes narrowed slightly, betraying the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

It was clear he was trying (and failing) to maintain a composed expression under the mask, but the tension in his muscles was unmistakable. Every now and then, his fingers twitched, as if itching to release the frustration he was desperately trying to conceal. Despite his efforts to appear calm, the intensity of his emotions was palpable, like a storm barely contained within.

König inhaled deeply, his body ready for a fight if things escalated, as he prepared for what Ghost was about to say. There were so many possibilities and none König was sure he could handle. But before Ghost could respond, the door creaked open, and in walked Krause, scrutinizing König and Ghost as he moved closer.

Instantly, the two soldiers tensed, their bodies on full alert as their focus shifted to the German.

"Zwei?" Krause asked, confusion dancing in his eyes. “Mir wurde mitgeteilt, dass es nur einen von euch geben würde."^[19]

𝘚𝘰, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘎𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯, König silently noted. It was a likely scenario, one that was his entire purpose for being a part of this mission, but there had been some hope Krause would start things off in English—so everyone could understand any and all information said.

However, that was clearly wishful thinking. Not that König had any issues with conversing in German. It made more sense that they would anyway. They were in Germany after all, and as far as Krause knew, he was meeting with a resident of Germany hoping to get their hands on some highly dangerous missiles.

Most residents don’t speak English unless speaking to tourists or practicing their English. So it would stand that they would converse in German. It was just a shame things didn’t work out the way the team had wanted things to.

“Er ist aus demselben Grund hier, aus dem Sie die beiden mitgebracht haben,"^[20] König said, gesturing to the two men standing beside Krause. "Ich bin sicher, Sie verstehen."^[21]

Krause hummed, eyeing Ghost who stood next to König like a vicious guard dog—his eyes piercing and unwavering as they watched every slight movement of the men in front of him. Ghost couldn’t speak German, something he was kicking himself in the ass about, but he could read body language. And right now that was more vital than ever. He wouldn’t risk missing a single detail.

Krause smirked. “Das ich tue,"^[22] he agreed before his smirk faltered, his eyebrows furrowing. “Was ist mit der maske?”^[23] He questioned, an edge of suspicion creeping into his tone as he gestured to König’s face.

On instinct König tensed, his shoulders twitching forward. He barely resisted the urge to tug at the fabric covering his face. It wasn’t his usual hood—Ghost and him having swapped their usual masks for simple black balaclavas to not risk further suspicion.

It was a risk wearing masks in general, they’d both known that going in. All they would’ve had to do was take off the masks and there wouldn’t have been any possibility of complications arising—no one knew what they looked like under the concealing fabric that usually graced their faces and they were wearing civvies after all.

But König hadn’t been able to bring himself to do that. The fear of others seeing his face made his skin crawl and heart begin to pound at the mere notion. It was stupid, but to him it felt like it’d be the end of the world if he allowed himself to strip his hood off and leave his face bare for the world to see. And from the way Ghost hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to take his mask off König could only assume he’d felt the same.

“Wir zeigen nie unser Gesicht. Ist das ein Problem?”^[24] König replied smoothly, keeping his voice steady.

Zaki's expression fluctuated between skepticism and defensiveness—his eyes narrowing and jaw tightening. He stared for a moment longer, seemingly debating on something, before he chuckled, his body relaxing.

"Keineswegs. Es könnte mir nicht egaler sein, wie du aussiehst. Solange Sie bereit sind, Geschäft zu machen."^[25]He said, his smirk reappearing effortlessly.

"Keine Sorge, ich bin mehr als bereit,” König replied, silently grateful his excuse worked."^[26]

“Ausgezeichnet. Lass uns zur Sache kommen."^[27]

König nodded. “Ja, lässt.”

The details of their transaction unfolded rather quickly after that.

König maintained his composure throughout the duration of their discussion, negotiating like a seasoned player in a high-stakes poker game. His focus was fixed on Krause while periodically stealing glances at Ghost, but under the surface his nerves were alight.

Every second he was wondering if he accidently said the wrong thing—the slightest misstep in wording being what could make or break this operation.

However, each time he and Ghost’s eyes crossed, an electric current surged between them. Ghost’s distrust and doubt was palpable, and yet, it was that very doubt that fuelled König’s resolve to prove himself.

He wouldn’t let Ghost have the satisfaction of seeing him fail.

Not today.

After a few more minutes of discussing specifics such as the make and model of the missiles (which further confirmed that Zaki was in fact linked to their disappearance), the details were finally settled, and all that was left was one question.

König steadied his voice. "Wann werden Sie mich kontaktieren?”^[28]

Krause's smirk stretched further, almost predatory. “Wenn Ich den Wunsch dazu habe.”^[29]

König’s fist clenched at Krause's noncommittal reply.

𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦.

Things could never be clean cut could they? There was always some game at play.

“Und wie wirst du das tun?"^[30]

“Meine Güte, du bist ein eifriger Welpe, nicht wahr? "^[31] Krause teased, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Hier.”

He held out a small flip phone, looking at König expectantly. The Austrian hesitated for a moment, his eyes roaming Krause’s for some secret vendetta, before he accepted the offering. As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t the one who was really in control of this situation; he was subjected to play by Krause’s rules, no matter how much he despised it.

“Guten junge. Ich werde dieses das Telefon benutzen, um dich zu kontaktieren. Ich würde es dicht an mir behalten und in der Umgebung bleiben. Man weiß nie, wann ich anrufen werde."^[32]

König pocketed the flip phone, feeling its weight settle against his thigh like a leaden reminder of the precarious tightrope he was walking. Krause hoped to keep him on a string, and the thought churned his stomach.

They were playing a dangerous game, and the stakes were higher than this sleazy backroom negotiation showed. Missiles capable of annihilating entire cities were hidden away, their exact location a mystery that hung in the air like a tornado warning promising devastation and destruction in its wake. Countless lives hung in the balance, and with each passing moment, the gravity of the situation intensified.

In reality this wasn’t some game. It was life and death. Yet to Krause—to 𝘡𝘢𝘬𝘪, it was a game.

One König was getting sick of playing.

It was time he made his own rules—showed 𝘩𝘪𝘴 hand in this little game of high stakes.

“Na gut,”^[33] König said, his voice betraying no tremor despite every rational thought in his brain screaming to back down and forget what he was planning.

He glanced at Ghost, who still stood beside him with his arms folded and hands clenched into tight fists, each muscle in his arms coiled like a spring ready to unleash its power.

He felt a small shiver run down his spine at the thought of what Ghost was capable of. He knew from experience just how much damage the Brits fists could do.

Hell, he’d expected to be killed on sight by said fists—beaten to a bloody pulp beyond recognition.

Still, he only had one chance. Ghost’s anger was a small price to pay and perhaps, in some cruel way, this was fate. He’d escaped death when he wasn’t supposed to and now the reaper was coming for his soul.

It was now or never.

“Jetzt, bevor wir das hier abschließen,”^[34] König said, shifting his attention back to Krause, “Habe ich noch eine Bedingung.”^[35]

Krause’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, before it returned, even wider.

“Oh? Sag schon. Ich bin neugierig."^[36]

König leaned in, lowering his voice. “Ich will die Bestätigung, dass dein Boss da sein wird, um die Raketen selbst abzuliefern, wenn wir sie holen kommen."^[37]

A low chuckle escaped Krause’s lips, the sound dripping with condescension. His body was more rigid than before, his demeanor almost flighty.

Perfect.

“Du denkst, du kannst mir Bedingungen vorschreiben? Wie überaus mutig von dir. Und die Großmäuligkeit zu besitzen und zu glauben, ich sei nicht—"^[38]

“Ich glaube nicht, ich weiß,"^[39]

König corrected, enjoying the flicker of irritation crossing Krause’s features. “Weißt du, ich erledige meine Hausaufgaben. Eine Qualität, die dein Boss sicherlich zu schätzen weiß. Die kleine Narbe auf deiner Wange? Zaki hat sie nicht."^[40]

König took a step closer, his hand reaching behind his back and pulling out his concealed side piece—an M17. He placed it directly to Krause’s stomach.

Instantly, Ghost, along with Krause, tensed, but König didn’t waver. Not even when Krause’s men pointed their gun barrels straight at him.

Instead, he continued, his voice low and calculated. Yet for the sake of the mission (and for his own safety), he switched to English.

“I don’t like being lied to, 𝘒𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦. So, to make it up to me I think it's only fair you agree to my condition. That is okay with you, ja?”

Krause studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing, as if searching for a weakness to exploit. For a second König thought the man didn’t speak English with how long he took to respond, but then finally, after several seconds that felt like an eternity, Krause nodded, conceding the point, albeit begrudgingly. He waved his men off and, after a moment's hesitation, they instantly backed down.

Ghost, with much reluctance, followed suit. Although despite the lieutenant seemingly following along with whatever plan König had, his eyes told a different story. They practically screamed murder as they pierced through König with unrivaled animosity. It made the hair on König’s arms stand on end.

He was so fucked.

Why did he willingly do this?

“Fine. But you better watch your back. Zaki isn’t a man you want to cross.” Krause said, his eyes doing a once over of König. “But I think he’ll like you. It turns out your a puppy that has some 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘦.”

König maintained his composure on the exterior, despite wanting to inwardly cringe at that little nickname. It was a small price, though. After all, he’d turned the tables, however slightly. Even if it was a huge gamble on his part and was sure to get him killed by Ghost. “Gute. As long as we have an understanding.”

Krause laughed softly, never breaking eye contact. “I’ll be seeing you shortly. Keep that phone close.”

“I planned on it,” König countered, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Let’s wrap this up,” Ghost interrupted, his tone sharp. “This isn’t a social visit. We have shite to do.”

“Indeed,” Krause replied, his amusement fading. “I’ll leave you to your…whatever it is you have planned. Just keep in mind, Zaki has ears everywhere, and one slip could lead to your undoing.”

With that, Krause turned and sauntered off, a predator retreating from its territory, leaving König there to watch as he disappeared out the door of the warehouse.

Throughout the entirety of Krause’s retreat König could feel Ghost’s seething glare bore into his back, hot and suffocating. The lieutenant was a force of nature, and the way he moved closer, every step measured and predatory, was enough to send a thrill of apprehension coursing through König’s veins.

This was it.

This was the day he died.

Oh well, it was a decent life.

Sort of.

“Do you even have a clue wha’ you just did?” Ghost snapped, his voice a low growl that resonated with barely contained fury. He closed the distance, invading König’s personal space, forcing him to meet those furious, icy eyes that promised retribution.

König clenched his jaw, anticipation burning through him. His fingers twitched with the need to grab something—a weapon, preferably. His body was ready for a fight, the adrenaline thrumming through him, but instead he took a deep breath.

Now wasn’t the time.

“The objective is the missiles,” he began, his voice steady and eyes unwavering as they held Ghost’s gaze. He made his bed, now it was time to lie in it. “But it is also in our interest to find Zaki. We need to know how he got his hands on the missiles, ja? If I’d let Krause continue to pretend to be Zaki then it is true we may obtain the missiles but we wouldn’t get Zaki. In the end he is the bigger target. I simply took control of the situation, Ghost.”

“Control? You think waving your gun around and playing the tough guy is control?” Ghost spat, fists clenched at his sides. “You could ave’ jeopardized everythin’! Bloody hell, you still might’ve! Krause might never contact us now. An’ in case you forgot, Zaki's not some half-assed street thug. He’s dangerous. An’ you just put a target on your back—on all our backs!”

König opened his mouth to retort, but the words felt hollow in the face of Ghost’s fury. He could feel the heat radiating off Ghost, could see the way his jaw clenched and unclenched with barely restrained rage.

For a moment, he thought Ghost might even throw a punch. So, instead of retorting, he settled for a steady breath, steadying himself as he tried to deflect the barrage of accusations. “It was a calculated risk. We couldn’t afford to be passive with Krause. I had to—”

“Shut it!” Ghost interrupted, his voice slicing through the air. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 don’ get to decide tha!” Ghost took another step closer, their chests now touching. König resisted the urge to step back—his skin feeling like it was on fire from the contact. “You could’ve gotten us killed. You fucking—”

“Enough!” A deep, commanding voice echoed through the tense atmosphere, cutting through Ghost's tirade.

Both men turned to find Price striding toward them with, well, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 flanking him. They all had expressions varying from concern to amusement, clearly intrigued by the unfolding drama yet none of them stupid enough to interrupt.

Meanwhile, Price looked pissed, which, yeah, that seemed about right. König knew there would be punishment for his insubordination, but he’d expected to get out of it. What with Ghost supposed to have already put him six feet under. “Ghost, stand down.” Price continued.

“Price,” Ghost started, but Price raised a hand to silence him.

“I said stand down, lieutenant,” Price commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. “This isn’t the time. Now, step away from König.”

Ghost eyed Price for a moment, bloodlust practically oozing out of him, before he finally obeyed. Although that wasn’t before he shot a glare at König of course.

König could’ve cared less though; he was more focused on letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his body practically sagging in relief.

“Sir, he—”

“I’m aware of wha’ he did,” Price interjected, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. “But let’s not forget we’re in the field, an’ König’s decision, while reckless, did lead to some advantage. Krause is now partially in our grasp because of it an’ in extension Zaki.”

Laswell stepped forward, placing a hand on Price’s shoulder. “I agree with John. We need information on Zaki, and any leverage we can gain is crucial. König might have ruffled some feathers, but it’s not all bad. He was able to shift the power dynamic. That’s something we can use.”

König felt a swell of relief, tempered by the lingering tension in the air. It seemed he wasn’t about to lose his job at least. Just his life.

Ghost’s jaw clenched, clearly still not satisfied. “But at what cost? We need to stick to the plan, not improvise like a bloody cowboy.”

“Sometimes, Simon, you need to be the cowboy,” Price replied, an edge of humor softening his stern demeanor. “Not everythin’ can be black and white. You an’ I both know tha’.”

Ghost huffed, visibly frustrated, however the difference in authority between him and Price clearly made him hesitate to argue further. He turned his gaze back to König, his gaze simmering with unresolved anger. “I still don’ like it,” he muttered.

“Neither do I,” Price admitted, “but it was a calculated risk. An’ as reckless as it was we don’ have time to dwell on it. We ave’ to keep our eyes on the real target ere’. Zaki is the priority, not our personal squabbles. Understood?”

“...Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Price said, nodding approvingly at Ghost. “Now, let’s focus on the mission. We need to relocate an’ discuss our next steps. This isn’t over yet.”

As Price turned to lead the way, König felt the weight of Ghost's glare on his back, the silent promise of his burial to come. But for now, they had a mission to complete.

He could be killed later.

ᗪᗩY Oᑎᗴ ᗯᗩITIᑎᘜ ᖴOᖇ Tᕼᗴ ᑕᗩᒪᒪ

König stepped into the small apartment, his booted footfalls echoing in the cramped space. He glanced around, taking in his new living conditions for the next few days (weeks?). It was really anyone's guess. It all depended on how long it took for Krause to call. He and Ghost couldn’t leave Germany until then. If they did, it could lead to complications.

Besides, they had to pretend like they’d always lived in Germany. There was no telling if Zaki’s men were watching, making sure they were who they said they were, after all.

Once they got the call, they’d inform the rest of the team of the details and be able to leave. But until then, König was stuck in this small apartment with Ghost.

The apartment in itself wasn’t bad, though. It was small, however, hardly big enough for two grown men of his and Ghost’s statures to be staying in.

It consisted of one room, one bathroom, and a living space. The walls were bare, painted a drab beige that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, and it had a small kitchen nook that opened up to the living area. It wasn’t the worst place he’s ever stayed in, not by far, but it certainly wasn’t fancy either.

𝘎𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶, König silently mused.

He hummed, letting his gaze wander. “Well, this is charming,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough to be heard over the faint hum of the refrigerator. His eyes drifted to the sparse furniture, taking note of the worn rug, the old couch that's seen better days, and the single window that offered a view of the street below.

He could make this work.

Ghost entered behind him, his movements silent and deliberate. His mask concealed any expression he might have had, but König could feel the weight of his scrutiny.
Ghost eyed the small apartment with a critical gaze, but (unsurprisingly) said nothing.

They hadn’t spoken more than a few words to one another since they were ordered to stay in the small apartment by Laswell and Price, and König didn’t expect that to change now.

Usually, he would’ve been grateful to be paired with someone who didn’t feel the need to talk about something every five minutes, but now all he wished for was to have some form of communication that consisted outside the range of glares and hard shoulder shoves.

He had no doubt why Ghost was making it a point to hardly speak to him; it was his way of maintaining the distance between them. But it still hurt. Even annoyed him a bit if he was being honest.

König glanced at the cracked wall clock that ticked steadily, each second an unwelcome reminder of the time they were wasting in this apartment. He’d been in the field long enough to know that patience was essential, but this was different. This was a prison, and the warden was the man standing a few feet away.

Said man now stood in the corner, arms crossed, his eyes boring into König with a dispassionate intensity. The silence thickened with every second, pressing down on them like the weight of an impending storm. König could feel the hostilty pulsing in the air, an unwelcome reminder of the unspoken rift between them.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. He was far too exhausted to be dealing with this right now. So, instead of just standing around bearing the intensity of Ghost’s gaze, he decided to move to the kitchen and begin rummaging around the cupboards and drawers to get an idea of what was available to him and Ghost. It was in their best interests to know what exactly they had on hand and served as a good distraction.

After a couple of seconds searching, having found a decent supply of kitchen supplies like cups, plates, bowls, and silverware, he found a container of instant coffee. He stared at it for a moment, contemplating if he should bother with the task, before reaching for it.

𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦, he silently sighed.

He moved towards the stove, picking up the kettle that rested atop of it, filling it with water, and placing it on a burner. The dim light of the small apartment flickered as König started the burner, his shoulders tense and rigid.

Outside, rain pattered softly against the window, providing a rhythmic backdrop to the silence that filled the room. He glanced sideways at Ghost, who had taken to leaning against the wall, the faint light casting shadows over his features, making him look even more enigmatic.

“Coffee?” König offered, though he didn’t really care for an answer.

Ghost’s gaze remained steady, unblinking. “No,” he finally spoke, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. The word hung in the air, sharp as a knife.

König felt a knot of irritation twist in his stomach, but he chose to ignore it, opting to focus on the kettle whistling softly in front of him.

Ghost’s behaviour wasn’t anything new.

Since the moment he arrived at 141 Ghost has always treated him like he was a piece of shit for no reason, granting him the bare minimum of civility, and he didn’t expect that to stop now.

Whatever ‘progress’ he’d possibly made with Ghost in his final weeks at 141 was long gone and was decidedly never returning. It was a strange fluctuation in the universe to begin with—Ghost suddenly being nice to him. But then again, König knew that wasn’t the actual word for what Ghost had been to him.

Manipulative was the word.

König had plenty of time to think back on those fateful few weeks before he left and every interaction he had at T.F. 141 prior, and he’s finally managed to decipher what everything meant. Ghost had started to be nice to him for two reasons.

One, was that Ghost had thought it would be fun to toy with him—to suddenly be some fucked up version of 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 to him and pretend to 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 when in the end, all Ghost wanted was to fuck with him—to 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 him. At the end of the day he was just some toy Ghost could use to have a good time.

The other reason was that Ghost had needed to soften him up so he’d agree to the little one night stand Ghost and Soap had planned to arange.

After all, it was no mystery to König that Soap had a fixation (albeit temporary) on him, and when thinking back on all those flirty interactions and coupling that with the Scotsmans personality, it became clear the whole threesome had been Soap’s idea. His final form of entertainment.

However, there would’ve been zero chance König would agree to participate in a one-night stand with Soap 𝘢𝘯𝘥 Ghost unless the lieutenant started being nice.

Additionally, it was clear Ghost would do anything for Soap, even if it meant having sex with someone he despised. It was also very likely Ghost was not the sharing type; therefore there would’ve been no way he’d let Soap fuck König without him present. Which left only one option: the threesome.

In the end, the only thing that brought forth the sudden ‘niceness’ Ghost had shown him was Soap’s desire for a fun time. Ghost hadn’t truly cared for him at all.

The only argument that could be made to disprove König’s conclusion would be the fact that Ghost was being hostile towards him again and that proved Ghost cared. After all, why would Ghost be hostile to this degree if he hadn’t cared?

Thing is, König had an answer for that too.

Ghost was acting hostile towards him again simply because he didn’t need to pretend to like him anymore. He also was probably pissed about the way he’d hurt Soap’s feelings. Which was understandable. König didn’t exactly feel good about that either.

“You’re going to let that boil over,” Ghost remarked, finally breaking the heavy silence, his tone casual but laced with an underlying edge.

König resisted the urge to flinch as he was forced back to the present, instead clenching his jaw and taking a deep breath.

“I know what I’m doing, Ghost.” he replied flatly, his voice barely above a whisper. He poured the hot water into a mug, letting it fill, hoping the mundane action would provide some distraction from the tension that threatened to bubble over like the kettle.

Ghost snorted. “Sure you do,” he mumbled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

König’s fingers twitched at his sides, and he clenched them into fists, fighting the urge to bite back.

“Are you sure you don’t want some?” he asked tersely, but his voice trembled with the effort of maintaining control. He wouldn’t give in though. He would resist giving Ghost the satisfaction of seeing him break if it was the last thing he ever did.

Ghost scoffed. “It's probably poisoned.”

König’s breath hitched. He felt the familiar urge to snap back, point out that Ghost had watched him make the water from start to finish and he was being idiotic, to unleash the anger that simmered beneath the surface, but he fought it. “Suit yourself then,” he replied, voice steady, though his teeth ached from the pressure his jaw was applying.

He poured some of the instant coffee into his mug, stirring it thoroughly with a spoon, the act a simple distraction from the suffocating atmosphere. He probably stirred it for longer than necessary, but that was a small misstep in the grand scheme of things.

As he turned, mug in hand, he caught Ghost’s piercing gaze. They stood there like that for a good minute or so, just staring into eachothers souls, but eventually König got tired of the silent war and surrendered, turning away.

“I’ll take the couch tonight,” he muttered, a small peace offering as he tried to mask his frustration with nonchalance. It was a small price to pay if it meant he could avoid any further confrontation with Ghost.

Ghost didn’t flinch, just continued to watch. “Fine by me,” he replied, his tone devoid of emotion.

König clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to retort. Instead, he took a sip of the bitter brew, letting the taste settle on his tongue, focusing on anything but the tension simmering between them.

It was going to be a long wait.

ᗪᗩY ՏI᙭ ᗯᗩITIᑎᘜ ᖴOᖇ Tᕼᗴ ᑕᗩᒪᒪ

Another day passed in silence. They had settled into a routine of avoidance. Ghost would more often than not train in the living area, his movements precise and fluid, while König kept to himself, doing whatever he could to distract himself from the unspoken hostility wafting through the air.

Currently, that consisted of him reading a book he’d bought the second day waiting for Krause to call. He knew he’d need some type of distraction from the suffocation of the apartment, the walls too close, the air too stale, and he knew Ghost wouldn’t let him leave without him, which left only one option: buying a book.

It worked.

For the most part.

However today wasn’t one of those times.

König sat at the rickety kitchen table, the tattered book propped open in front of him; however, the words had blurred into a jumbled mess at some point, each line blending into the next as his mind drifted elsewhere.

As much as he tried to focus on the plot of the book, all his mind seemed capable of doing was stubbornly thinking back to every little interaction between him and Ghost the past couple of days.

Every single one descended into a suffocating silence, a shared space that felt more like a void than mutual ground to co-exist on. Days blurred into one another, each marked by the same monotony, a relentless cycle that seemed to mock any hopes of change.

And as much as König hated to admit it, he couldn’t help but to envision a different reality on more than one occasion, one where they could coexist in peace. He and Ghost could have moments without hate-filled glares and perhaps even the occasional peaceful conversation instead of curt, hostile, three-worded sentences.

All he wanted was the bare minimum of civility, a mutual respect that would allow them to navigate their lives without the constant undercurrent of hostility. But he knew that dream was just that—a dream.

Anything between him and Ghost was long burned into ash and swept away to forever be lost to the universe. Forever forgotten.

There was no changing that.

Not ever.

He could only dream.

König sighed, the need to move outweighing his will to stay seated and pretend to read—to get lost in the ever flowing current that was his mind. He attempted to stretch his legs, his knees popping as he got up.

He walked to the window, staring out at the dull street below. The urban landscape felt lifeless, much like the atmosphere inside the apartment. He could feel Ghost's gaze boring into him, scrutinizing, almost like he was trying to peel back layers König had buried deep. Constantly analyzing him—𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 him.

It was tiring; always being under someones watchful eye.

Everywhere König went, there was some type of eyes on him; there was no avoiding that, but he’d rather go back to when he was just a passing spark of intrigue—he’d draw eyes, but they’d eventually turn away as their owners lost interest in whatever drew their attention in the first place, allowing him the reprieve he so desperately craved.

With Ghost, that attention never wavered.

He was sick of it.

“Would it kill you not to stare?” König finally muttered, his frustration bubbling over, the sharpness in his voice surprising even him. He immediately regretted it, the harshness making the air crackle with discomfort.

Ghost set down the knife he’d been polishing, leaning forward slightly. His eyes narrowed. “Why? You got a problem?”

König took a deep breath, his eyes closing. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut. This wasn’t worth it. “Nein, everything’s fine.”

Ghost scoffed. “How typical,” he shot back, his tone laced with irritation.

König felt his eyebrow twitch, a spark of annoyance surging through him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know.”

König scoffed, slightly turning his head to glare at the Brit a few feet away. “No, I don’t. So why don’t you enlighten me, Ghost?”

For a moment, they stood in a stalemate, the air crackling with unspoken words. Ghost’s expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—annoyance or perhaps it was…𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵? However, before König could decipher which it was, Ghost spoke again.

“All you ever do is roll over. Give up an’ run when things get difficult.” His words dripped with disdain, but beneath it, there was something deeper, an irritation that had been building for days—𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴 even. Ever since the moment König had left T.F. 141 without so much as a proper farewell.

König finally turned to fully face Ghost, his piercing eyes meeting Ghost’s. “You think I wanted to leave? I had no 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦. I had to follow orders.” His voice was low but filled with frustration.

"Orders?" Ghost's voice dripped with skepticism. "Sure, you just slipped away with some half assed goodbye with no real explanation an’ tha’ was you ‘followin’ orders’. Thought you might ave’ grown a spine, but ere’ we are."

"Why do 𝘺𝘰𝘶 even care?" König shot back, his anger bubbling forth and overriding his deep-seated instinct to remain compliant. "You and Soap were perfectly happy together! What did I mean to you, anyway?”

König's fists tightened, all reason going out the window in the face of his anger.

"Besides, what would you have had me do? Throw a tantrum? Disobey? Get angry over something as silly as a quick fling—a one-night stand!?” The words were more harsh than he intended, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t anymore. He was tired. Tired of everything—the suffocating silence, the piercing stares, the guilt—𝘢𝘭𝘭 of it.

Ghost’s expression hardened. "Are you serious? You think it was just a fling? Something to pass the time?"

König scoffed. "What else would it have been?"

Ghost threw himself to his feet, the couch screeching against the floor. He stepped closer to König, anger radiating from him in waves. "A relationship, König! A real one. We were all supposed to talk bout’ it, to see if it could go somewhere. An’ 𝘺𝘰𝘶 just left."

“Don’t lie to me,” König spat, his voice rising. “You can’t possibly care about me. No one can love someone like me!” The words tumbled out before he could stop them, raw and painful. Each syllable felt like a dagger, striking at the insecurities he had buried deep.

Ghost’s expression shifted, confusion battling with anger under the mask. "Wha’ the hell are you on? You think I’d waste my time on you if I didn’ care?"

König felt his chest tighten, a tempest of emotions swirling within him. "I don’t want your pity," he snapped, though the words felt hollow.

“Wha’ pity?” Ghost shot back, his own defenses rising. “You think no one can love you? Tha’s bullshit!”

“It’s the truth!”

“It’s a bloody load of codswallop!" Ghost's voice cracked like thunder.

König recoiled, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His eyes narrowed, the once warm glint replaced by a maniacal, hate-filled glare that could cut through steel.

The self-loathing words spilled from him like venom, thick and acrid, poisoning the air around them. “You don’t understand! No one can love me. I’m not good enough for this…for you or Soap.”

His voice trembled, quaking with a fury that was both self-directed and outwardly aimed at the world that had constantly judged him.

“Tha’s bullshit an’ you kno—”

With a shout of rage, König crossed the room in two quick strides and grabbed Ghost by the front of his jacket, shoving him back to arm’s length. He jostled Ghost to get his attention and snarled beneath his hood.

“SHUT UP! I’m a fucking 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, Ghost, and you know it! There is a reason you’ve treated me like shit since we met, ja!? Tell me, what was it? What is it about me that scared you so much? Is it the size? The mask? Or was it the fact that deep down you knew I wasn’t human anymore!?” He stepped closer, forcing Ghost to feel the heat radiating from his body, a blend of fury and vulnerability that sent an electric shock through the air. He was screaming so loud his voice was cracked and raw, face red and the front of his hood damp with his spittle.

Ghost remained silent, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of König’s accusation. His instincts screamed to step back, to maintain the distance he had carefully constructed over the months, but something in König’s gaze anchored him in place.

König let out a harsh laugh, a sound filled with self-loathing. Ghost’s eyes, usually so steady and unreadable, flickered with something that might have been surprise—or perhaps fear. But König didn’t care; all he saw was the guilt in Ghost’s gaze confirming his words. His grip tightened around Ghost's jacket, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife.

”That is what I thought. You kept your distance because you sensed it; that I’m not human anymore. Just a shadow of what I used to be.”

König drew himself to his full height. The weight of his presence looming over Ghost, his eyes dark and angry as he leaned in. “I’ll let you in on a secret. That’s how everyone feels. I’m just a weapon built to follow orders, to take lives without a second thought. Do you think I don’t know what I am?” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the turmoil beneath his mask.

Ghost opened his mouth, but no words came. The silence hung between them, heavy and suffocating. König felt his anger morphing into something darker, something more self-destructive. He released Ghost, letting him stumble back, his frustration boiling over as he began pacing, his hand coming to grasp at his wrist in some desperate attempt to ground himself—to feel some form of 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵.

“Every time you look at me with that mix of wariness and disdain, I get reminded of what I really am. I’ve killed men, hunted them like animals, and you… you see me as this… this 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨! Just like the rest of them! A brute, a soldier stripped of humanity. I was once someone, you know! I had dreams, hopes… but all that was erased when they turned me into this. A 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦. Just a weapon for the highest bidder! Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I enjoy being treated like an object!? I hate it! I hate what I’ve become! Every day is a reminder that I’m not just a soldier; I’m a—”

König stopped mid-sentence, choking on the words that wanted to escape. The self-loathing swelled inside him, threatening to drown him. He felt small, and exposed. He didn’t want to show Ghost this weakness, this vulnerability. But he couldn’t help it. He was too far gone.

“I am nothing but a monster,” he finished, his voice barely a whisper. “And you—you are such a 𝘩𝘺𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦, Ghost.” he chuckled, the tone hollow and filled with self loathing. He was angry. Angry at himself. Angry at Ghost. Angry at his choices. Hell, he was angry at the 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥.

“After everything 𝘠𝘖𝘜’𝘝𝘌 done?! And you have the gall to judge 𝘮𝘦?! How 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 you! How dare you despise my very presence and then stand here and try to lie to me! To pretend to 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 all over again! No one could love something like me! I’m just—”

In a swift motion, Ghost closed the gap between them and gripped König’s shoulders, pinning him against the wall with an intensity that startled him. The harsh surface of the dry wall pressed against König’s back, grounding him, even as his heart raced.

His words hung in the air, a bitter confession that threatened to choke him as much as the self-loathing gripping his heart. He felt the heat of his own fury radiating from him like a burning sun, but beneath that anger lay a raw vulnerability he couldn’t quite suppress as he stood there, seething and exposed, staring at Ghost.

“Tha’s enough, König! You need to stop,” Ghost commanded, his voice low and unwavering, a weight of authority layered beneath it. There was an urgency in his tone that cut through the haze of König’s self-loathing, but he was too consumed by his own turmoil to heed it.

“Why? Did I hit a nerve?” König snapped back, his eyes blazing with defiance, yet the tremor in his voice betrayed the war within him. “How typical. You only care when it involves you. Well, why should 𝘐 care about what 𝘺𝘰𝘶 want? You’ve treated me like a monster since day one! Toyed with me for just as long!”

But as he spoke, a dark, insistent urge began to gnaw at him. Without realizing it, his fingers were digging into the flesh of his palms, nails pressing deep enough to draw blood. The pain felt real, a sharp contrast to the numbness that often engulfed him. He could almost convince himself that the physical hurt was preferable to the emotional chaos roiling inside.

Ghost’s gaze sharpened, his grip tightening slightly as he noticed the crimson lines beginning to etch themselves into König’s skin, dripping to the floor. He reached down, his hands coiling around König’s wrists and pulling them towards himself. “𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘵,” he snarled, shaking König gently but firmly, the urgency palpable in his voice. “You’re going to get an infection!”

“How is that 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 issue?” König spat, the venom in his words making his throat ache. “You don’t care. You can’t even stand my presence! All you see me as is some untrustworthy, ah, 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦, what is the word? Oh, 𝘯𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦!”

“Not anymore!” Ghost's voice thundered, drowning out König’s self-hatred with an unwavering force. “Damnit, I 𝘥𝘰 care bout’ you, König! I’m sick O’ you thinking otherwise!”

König’s heart stuttered at the admission, a flicker of hope igniting in the dark abyss of his despair. But he quickly crushed it down, unwilling to entertain the idea that someone could ever see past the facade he adopted and accepted as his true self. “You’re lying,” he retorted hoarsely, voice trembling as the anguish clawed at his chest.

“I’m not.” Ghost pressed, stepping even closer until their bodies nearly brushed. The tension between them crackled like electricity, raw and potent. “I din’t wan’to admit it, okay? Tha’ I cared. Not at first, but Johnny he—” a deep breath, as if it was taking everything within Ghost to continue, to rip himself open, raw and bare for the world to see—for 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨 to see.

“He helped me, okay? I tried to resent you an’ keep you at a distance. I treated you unfairly and tha’s on me. I just, I didn’ want to risk the team. I didn’ want to risk 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘯𝘺.”

“What…”

“An’ I’ve been…” Ghost clenched his jaw, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second as he took a deep breath.

“Fucking hell…” He whispered, the word tumbling out of his mouth as a exhale.

“I’ve been 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥, okay? Scared of wha’ you might think of me, of what 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 done. Tha’ it’d keep you from accepting Johnny an’ I’s…𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. But I’m not lyin’ t’you, König. I wouldn’t do tha’. Not bout’ this.”

König's defenses wavered, the heat of Ghost’s words mingling with the storm raging within. He opened his mouth to retort, to push back against the tide of emotions threatening to sweep him away.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about—” but he wasn’t able to finish as Ghost silenced him with a swift brush of a gloved thumb tracing over his lips as his balaclava was dragged down below his chin.

He froze, unable to even register Ghost drawing his own mask above his nose, before Ghost was surging forward, closing the distance between them with an urgency that made König’s brain short circuit.

Their lips collided in a fierce, unyielding kiss that silenced all of König’s protests. It was raw, electric, a fervent dance of emotions filled with unspoken words and the weight of everything left unsaid.

Ghost’s lips moved against his with fervor, pushing back against all the walls König had built, demanding he surrender to the moment.

König was taken aback, his instincts screaming at him to pull away, to hide. But the warmth of Ghost’s mouth, the way he seemed to pour every ounce of emotion into that single moment, broke through the frigid barriers surrounding him.

For a moment, he remained rigid, unsure of how to respond. But then, as if something inside him flickered to life, he relaxed into the kiss, his anger dissipating into the haze of passion igniting between them as he responded.

It was tentative at first, as if he were afraid that he might break the fragile connection between them. But Ghost didn’t pull away. Instead, he deepened the kiss, pouring everything into that one shared moment, trying to make sure König understood he 𝘥𝘪𝘥 care.

He couldn’t put it into words as elegantly or effortlessly as Johnny could, but he could show it through action. And he was dead set on making sure König got the message.

His hands slid up to cup König’s face, fingers brushing against the edges of his mask, urging him closer.

As the kiss deepened, the world around them faded, leaving only the two of them—lost in a tempest of feelings they had both been too afraid to acknowledge.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and consumed by a whirlind of emotions—desire, hope, fear, 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵.

It was a result of König who had abruptly ended the connection with a stuttered, “Wait.” It was a plead born not just from the physical act, but from the deeper implications of what this kiss meant for both of them. For 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨. “There’s something—”

But before König could continue, the shrill ring of Krause’s phone shattered the moment, echoing through the cramped apartment.

They pulled apart, König instantly cursing under his breath as he fished the phone from his pocket and answered, ignoring the eyes still blazing with unsaid words in front of him.

As he stood there, heart racing and thoughts a whirlwind, he couldn’t process what had just happened let alone understand how the tension had snapped and given way to this—this dangerous, exhilarating new territory. Nor could he fully focus on what Krause was saying. It took everything in him to comprehend and piece together the necessary words to respond to Krause.

It was ridiculous.

Thankfully, the call didn’t last long and he was able to hang up rather quickly.

“We got a set location,” König mumbled, keeping his gaze settled on the floor instead of Ghost as he pocketed the phone. “I’ll go contact Price.” He side-stepped, pulling his mask back in place as he tried to regain his composure, but before he could get far he felt a firm grip on his arm.

“Don’t.” Ghost said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down König's spine. The man’s eyes bore into him, a storm brewing in the depths of his mask, the air thickening. “This isn’t over.”

König’s pulse quickened again, but this time it wasn’t just from their earlier encounter. There was an unmistakable gravity in Ghost’s hold, a reminder of the tension that still crackled between them. The implications of their actions, the reality of their situation—they collided within him, a tumultuous swirl of desire, confusion, and 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳.

“...I have to contact the team,” König insisted, his mind racing. He wanted to break free from the moment, to focus on the mission that lay ahead and the chaos that loomed outside their small bubble. But Ghost’s eyes held him captive, weaving a web of uncertainty that made his stomach knot.

“After. We need to talk bout’ this,” Ghost insisted, his grip tightening ever so slightly, a mix of urgency and something deeper in his tone.

König hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he was afraid to voice. The last thing he wanted was to delve into the mess of emotions that had erupted between them, yet the magnetic pull of Ghost’s presence made it hard to walk away. He opened his mouth to protest, to assert the necessity of their roles, but the words caught in his throat.

“𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨.” Ghost continued after a couple of seconds of silence, that one word holding so much. His tone softened, almost bordering pleading.

König couldn’t look him in the eyes. All he could do was try not to puke as he felt the bile rising in his thoat.

Why?

𝘞𝘩𝘺 did Ghost have to do this now? Why couldn’t he just let him continue to believe that he was nothing but a pawn for Soap and him?

𝙒𝙝𝙮?

“I have to go.”

“König—”

König forced his arm away from Ghost’s grasp, the warmth of it lingering on his skin as he turned on his heel to go grab another phone—one for secure communications—stowed in a bag in the other room.

Every step felt like a betrayal, like he was walking away from something vital. But he couldn’t concentrate on that—he needed to focus, to drown out the storm inside him and redirect his energy toward the mission. He couldn’t let himself be distracted now.

It was far too late to turn back.

He needed to be KorTac’s perfect soldier—their 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳.

Even so, he couldn’t stop it as his mind flickered back to the heat of Ghost’s breath against his skin, the way they had been drawn together by something undeniable. The promise of something more between not only him and Ghost but Soap as well.

He was so fucked.

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The air was thick with a stale scent of rust and chemical residue as König and Ghost made their way into the decaying Chemiewerk Rüdersdorf, the designated meeting place Zaki had chosen.

The skeletal remains of the factory loomed overhead, a labyrinth of crumbling walls and shattered windows that whispered secrets of its former life.

Dressed in civilian attire but now blessed with their usual masks in place, König and Ghost moved in as Zaki’s scheduled buyers, their eyes scanning every corner for signs of danger.

"Stay sharp," Ghost murmured, his voice low and edged with tension. It was the first thing he’d said to König since they left the safe house.

“Copy that,” König murmured, steeling himself for the interaction ahead. He could feel the weight of Ghost's gaze on him—has since he walked away and contacted the team back at the safe house—the lingering questions from their earlier encounter still heavy in the air, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead, his hood concealing the tension that was building beneath the surface.

He couldn’t acknowledge what happened. Not now. It was far too late to let himself accept what had happened—to accept Ghost and Soap. If he did, there would be no way he could carry out this mission.

Even so, he couldn’t stop the hatred that was consuming him.

He hated himself.

Hated that he finally spoke up after enduring months of Ghost’s antics without so much as a single complaint. If it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t have to feel like this—he wouldn’t be 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘒𝘰𝘯𝘻𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘬𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘈𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘬𝘶𝘯𝘨.^[41] He reminded himself.

Now wasn’t the time.

It was far too late.

𝙍𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩?

König and Ghost approached the designated meeting area: a dusty open space filled with broken crates and flickering fluorescent lights.

As they entered, the musty air hit them like a brick wall. Broken windows let in slivers of sunlight that illuminated the grime-covered floor.

In the center, Zaki, the actual Zaki, leaned casually against a crate, flanked by armed guards, an arrogant smirk plastered on his face. He opened his mouth, ready to start the transaction, when he was cut off by a certain Brit.

“English,” Ghost demanded, his voice a low rumble. His eyes were like twin daggers—narrowed and venomous as they dared Zaki to argue.

Zaki hesitated a moment, clearly caught off guard by Ghost’s boldness, before he chuckled, his eyes glinting with amuesment. "You are fiesty,” He noted. “You are the ones here for the missiles then, ja?" He continued, his accent thick and unyielding.

“Depends,” Ghost replied, stepping forward, his demeanor casual but his eyes sharp. “You got the cargo?”

Zaki smirked. “Of course.” He glanced over to König, his smirk widening. “I must say, it is nice to finally meet you two. Krause had a lot to say. Most of it true, it seems.”

“I’m sure he did.” Ghost shot back. “But let's cut the chit-cha’ short. We didn’ come ere’ to make friends.”

Zaki chuckled. “Is that so?” He exchanged a glance with his guards, a silent conversation unfolding, before nodding. "Very well then. I’ll save the, ah, what was it you said? Oh, the ‘chit-chat’ for later. Follow me." He turned, his guards instantly at his heels as he went deeper into the factory.

With cautious steps, König and Ghost trailed Zaki through the labyrinth of decaying machinery, each on high alert as they made their way through the factory.

Every second seemed to tick by like a minute, slow and agonizing, and each one that passed led to further discomfort. It must’ve been centuries by the time Ghost and König finally arrived at Zaki’s desired meeting place, their bodies taut with tension.

Tension that exploded at the sight that greeted them: three metal crates the size of mini boats sat side by side, the labels smudged, ready for transport.

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead glinted off the steel surface of the crates, casting stark shadows in the dimly lit warehouse. One of the crates stood ominously ajar, its front opened wide as if to invite them into a world of danger and intrigue.

Inside, a single American ballistic missile lay cradled within the metallic confines. It was sleek and menacing, it’s aerodynamic body painted in a glossy olive drab, blending seamlessly into the shadows of the crate. The tip of the missile was a stark, polished silver, reflecting the light like the cold glint of a predator's eye, poised to strike.

“Fucking hell…” Ghost whispered, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Impressive, is it not? I even have the mobile launching systems." Zaki boasted, stepping aside to allow them a closer look. "But what you really want to know is the price."

With a subtle movement, Ghost activated his comm. “Mis–iles confirmed to be on sight. Move in,” he muttered.

“What—”

Within moments, the rest of Ghost and König’s team descended upon the area, tactical movements precise and practiced as they surrounded Zaki and his guards.

“Drop your weapons!” Gaz, being the first to enter, commanded, his voice booming against the walls. His gun was raised, ready to fire at the slightest pull of a trigger.

Caught off guard, Zaki’s men hesitated—just long enough. The chaos erupted. Shouts of German, each panicked and confused, rang out as guns were raised with the intent to fire. Ghost lunged, tackling one guard to the ground, while König aimed his previously concealed weapon at Zaki, who was frantically reaching for his own.

“Don’t.” König warned, the weight of his gun steady in his hands.

Zaki froze, eyes narrowed with anger. “You think you can take me down? I have connections—”

“Not anymore,” König interjected, his hand tightening around his M17. “Now, stand down.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll shoot.”

Zaki smirked. “Ist das so?” In one quick movement he reached for his gun tucked behind his back, intent on testing König’s words, but in that same moment a gunshot resonated through the room, the sound like thunder striking in the midst of a storm.

Zaki let out a shout of pain, voice filled with agony as he fell in on himself, instinctively clutching his leg. Before he even had time to process what just happened König was handcuffing him while the rest of KorTac and T.F 141 subdued his remaining guards.

“Ich habe versucht, dich zu warnen,"^[42] Once sure Zaki wasn’t going anywhere, König turned his gaze back towards the missiles, which stood like sentinels in the dimly lit storage area, gleaming ominously under the flickering fluorescent lights.

It was like a silent torment the way they gleamed, mocking him and reminding him of just why he couldn’t feel relief yet—the mission being far from over.

“Good work, everyone! Now let’s get those mis-iles loaded an’ secure the area!” Price barked, his voice low and filled with authority as he made his way toward the missiles. With each step Price took, König’s heartbeat rose, banging against his skull like a drum. Every inhale he took felt weighed down, catching in his throat and depriving him of oxygen.

A flicker of movement, so quick, so silent you would never see it coming. Against his better judgment, König closed his eyes and turned away. He couldn’t watch. He just...couldn’t.

“Sorry, but there’s been a change of plans.”

A cold metal, so prominent and unforgiving, pressed against the back of Price’s head. He froze, his heart pounding as the world slowed around him. He knew what it was the second it made contact with his skin—a gun barrel.

The echo of the gun clicking warned him too late—he turned, eyes narrowing as he saw Calisto standing behind him, a predatory gleam in her eyes. She smirked. “What’s with that look? Did you really think we’d just hand over the missiles?"

Price didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes darted around, trying to assess the situation, but dread flooded him with each passing second as he realized that every member of 141 was now held at gunpoint. Roach, Soap, Gaz—all of them were surrounded by KorTac operatives whose weapons were aimed unyieldingly at their heads.

They were trapped.

Betrayed.

And he was 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴.

However, before Price could form a plan, inact his fury, a chaotic cacophony erupted. The crack of a gunshot, the scrape of boots against concrete—everything exploded into action.

Ghost, with an anger that could rival the Gods themselves, had side swept the barrel pointed at his head resulting in the gunfire as he surged forward with an intent so fierce not even the worlds strongest barrier could stop him.

In a flash, König was pinned against a crate, Ghost's forearm pressed hard against his throat, the unforgiving glint in his eyes making it painfully clear—there was no room for misunderstanding.

König let it happen—despite having all the time in the world to react. He could’ve easily shifted his gun from Roach’s head to Ghost’s and taken him down, but no matter how much every instinct in his body screamed at him to pull the trigger, he just couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

“I knew we couldn’t fucking trust you!” Ghost shouted, his voice a venomous growl. His eyes pierced through König with pure hatred, two icy daggers formed from the pits of hell. That hatred cut deeper than any bullet. It made it feel as though the walls were closing in, the weight of König’s decisions crashing down on him like an avalanche.

The last thing König wanted was to see that look of betrayal mirrored back at him. To see that storm of emotions: anger, resentment, and betrayal.

But that wasn’t all—there was something else there.

Something so inexplicitly human it made König want to take his own gun and end it right then and there.

Ghost’s eyes were glassy.

It was barely noticable, if he wasn’t so close Köng wouldn’t have even been able to tell, but it was a sickening truth. Ghost’s eyes were filled with hatred and betryal but above all else they were filled with 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬.

Every ounce of guilt König had buried in favor of the mission rose to the surface as he stared into those eyes, clawing at him like a desperate animal. He had never wanted to hurt Ghost.

Not like this.

Not ever.

"I should’ve put a bullet in you the moment I saw you—" Ghost began, his voice a low growl, but the rest of his words were cut off by the sharp command of Roze.

“Stand down, Ghost!” Roze shouted, holding Laswell in a chokehold, her gun pointed directly at the C.I.A. operative’s temple, weapon steady and unforgiving. The tension shifted, the atmosphere thickening with the weight of anticipation. “Or don’t. It’s your choice. But unless you want Laswell here to die, I’d back off." She tilted her head, humming as she seemed to consider something. "Then again, I think she'd look good with a little bit of red, don't you?”

Ghost’s grip tightened on König’s neck for a moment, a silent struggle between anger and defiance. His eyes bore into Roze’s very soul, promising death and despair, but after a few seconds of hesitation he took a step back, releasing the traitor.

Roze chuckled, her lips forming into a menacing smirk. “It seems your intel was spot on, König. They really aren’t willing to abandon one of their own, let alone risk their life. Good work.”

König’s blood froze as those words hung in the air. He glanced around, taking in everyones reactions. Each one wrapped around him like a chain, weighing him down with regret and guilt. Gaz, Roach, Soap, everyone on 141—they all looked at him like he ripped away their very souls.

And in a way, he did.

Chapter Text

The air crackled with unspoken accusations as Roze's words settled like a shroud over them all. König felt the weight of 141’s—even some of his own teams—collective stares, a silent condemnation that was far sharper than any blade. He saw the calculated malice in Roze's eyes, a puppeteer reveling in the chaos she'd unleashed. It made him feel sick.

"You think we're just goin’ to let this slide?" Soap growled after a second, his hand twitching towards his weapon. His voice carried through the tense space, strong and sharp. He may be held at gunpoint, but his eyes burned with a ferocious intensity that made it seem like he didn’t even register the gun barrel pointed at him—that one slip up would be the last mistake ever made.

"You may ave’ the upper hand right now, but it won’t last. We will take you bastards down, and when we do, I’ll be the one to personally see you off to hell.”

Roze chuckled, a smirk spreading wide across her face. "Y’know what’s funny? They all say that, and yet the same thing happens: their words end up being just that; words. Empty talk.”

Her smirk widened as she watched Soap’s face darken. It never failed to bring her joy when her victims learned they haven’t been her only prey.

“Oh, Soap, what’s with that look?” She drawled, voice condensing. “Did you really think we hadn’t done this before? Betrayed a team we were supposed to have the backs of? If so, you are more naive than I thought.”

“You sick—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Roze started, pressing the barrel of her gun further into Laswell’s temple. “I’d watch what you say, sergeant. You don’t want to cause my finger to accidently slip, do you?”

Soap’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He eyed the gun pressed to Laswell’s head for a moment then looked back at Roze. He wanted to argue, he wanted to lash out, but instead he took a deep breath. Now wasn’t the time. Too much was at stake.

Roze hummed. “That’s what I thought. Y’know, it's sad how eas—”

“That is enough, sergeant,” König’s voice echoed, low and authoritative. “There is no reason to antagonize them further.”

Roze’s gaze flicked over to König. She felt a surge of anger as she looked at him. He’s been acting strange since before this mission even started—being tense, hardly having done his job when the apprehending of 141 took place, failing to give them actual intel on 141 like their relations with each other and usual strategies when on missions, and now he was deciding to get in her way when he usually let her crush their enemies very wills?

She was sick of it.

If it wasn’t for the fact that he out ranked her and quite frankly terrified her deep down, she would’ve bit back. Instead, she simply gave him a sweet smile, hand ever so slightly tightening on the hilt of her gun.

"I’m just having a little fun, there's no need to get so touchy,” she said, her voice barely containing her annoyance.

“Cut the shit, he has every right to call you out. We have a mission to do, and your ‘fun’ is taking up valuable time,” Horangi cut in, ever the supporter when König needed it. He knew König could handle himself, but right now it seemed better to intervene.

Since the mission was announced, Horangi knew König was going to be a wild card more so than usual. König was vulnerable when it came to the 141 for reasons he still didn’t have the full story on. As of right now, he only had limited information and he saw it was best to intervene and not take a chance on something causing this situation to escalate further. Or worse, leading to KorTac questioning König.

That said, he did have a hunch on what the story was between König and 141. He suspected the ‘people’ König had mentioned getting close to were Soap and Ghost. The hostility the two of them have thrown at König throughout this entire operation was a significant giveaway. He just couldn’t figure out what the relation was between König and them.

However, it was clear that the relation ran deep. He saw the way König let Soap take his anger out on him in the form of small jabs, allowed Ghost to pin him just now (something König would 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 let happen under normal circumstances), and how all of König’s movements when regarding the two 141 soldiers were filled with hesitation. König was barely hanging on, still struggling despite his will to carry out the mission and be the perfect soldier—to erase his feelings.

Horangi hated it.

Hated seeing König like this. He hated even more that he couldn’t take away König’s pain, that he couldn’t even begin to fully understand what exactly happened between König and the 141.

But even so, there was one thing he did know: he could be there for König. He could support him. And that's what he planned to do, even if it meant pissing off his own teammates.

Roze scoffed. “Whatever. Let's just get this over with.”

"Agreed," he said, turning back to König with a small nod. König hesitated for a moment before taking that as his cue. With an unreadable expression behind the hood, he stepped forward and ordered KorTac to move 141 to a designated spot that Calisto had identified from the building blueprints, ensuring they could fully secure the missiles without interruption.

The stakes were high, and there was no room for error; the success of their mission depended on every detail being executed flawlessly. And with that, KorTac began to continue carrying out their true mission. They started to push 141’s operatives toward the main factory floor, the towering metal shelves casting long, menacing shadows.

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Price’s jaw was clenched tight, his gaze unwavering as he tried to find a way out. He could feel his rage bubbling, a desperate need to unleash hell on everyone who had just betrayed 141, hurt them, 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 them. He wouldn’t let KorTac get away with this.

Not now.

Not ever.

And certainly 𝘯𝘰𝘵 on his watch.

As they were herded into the open, Price’s mind worked on overdrive, running through every possible outcome he could take to get his team out of enemy fire.

He had no doubt that it was only a matter of time before the triggers on KorTac’s guns were finally pulled and he and his team were permanently ‘dealt with’. He had to find a way out as quickly as possible.

He just needed to figure out the 𝘩𝘰𝘸.

Sadly, that was easier said than done.

Of course that didn’t mean all hope was lost. As they were moved through the abandoned factory, Price continued to survey every minuscule detail he could, noting the positions of potential exits, weapons, cover, and KorTac operatives.

Throughout it all he exchanged subtle glances and signals with his team, conveying his intentions with each one. He had full faith everyone understood his silent instructions, having handpicked his team himself and put his life in their hands more times than he could count, and his theory was proven once he saw an opportunity.

They were near the entrance to one of the loading docks, a space obscured by a row of old, rotting stacked palettes. They had been walking for a decent amount of time (no doubt nearing KorTac’s intended destination), there was plenty of room for a scuffle, Kortac had them all decently spread out, there was a sufficient amount of cover, and the space had two potential exits. It was the perfect opportunity.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the chaos that was about to unfold.

"Now!" Price roared, his voice cutting through the tense silence. In the same breath he launched at Calisto to his left, disarming her in a move that was both brutal and swift.

Ghost, spurred by Price’s action, used his momentum to slam his head into the soldier behind him, effectively taking Aksel out of the fight before turning to Horangi restraining Soap beside him.

The fight ignited with an almost unnatural violence, like a wound that had been ripped open. Ghost wasn't going to let them get away with this. A cold, simmering rage, usually kept meticulously contained, boiled over, propelling him into a whirlwind of brutal efficiency.

In a swift movement, Ghost evaded the scarily precise jab aimed at his head, his body a coiled spring releasing its pent-up energy.

He countered with a brutal left hook, a punch that landed squarely on the side of Horangi’s jaw. The sound was sickening, a wet thud that echoed in the confined space. It wasn't a clean blow, but it was enough to destabilize the Korean.

Horangi staggered back, a hand flying to his stinging jaw. For a fleeting moment, his usual concentration was replaced by a look of stunned disbelief, and before he could recover Ghost pressed his advantage, relentless as a predator on the hunt. The Brit followed up with a powerful kick to Horangi's midsection, the impact driving the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp.

The momentum of the brutal takedown sent Horangi crashing to the floor. He slammed onto the hard surface with a groan, the wind knocked completely out of him. He lay there, dazed and disoriented, the taste of blood filling his mouth. His body ached, throbbing with pain from Ghost’s hits. It felt like he'd been hit by a freight train, every bone in his body ached in ways he didn't think possible. However, he didn't stay down for long—he couldn't allow himself to.

Not right now.

Not when König needed him.

With a grunt of effort, he threw himself back onto his feet and pressed Ghost relentlessly, forcing him backwards with every hit. This was his element—close combat. He was known for the way he effortlessly took down men twice his size and he was prepared to add Ghost to that list at any cost.

Of course, the Brit wasn't making that easy though. Despite his movements being fluid and unpredictable, Ghost parried blow after blow, relying on his superior size and strength to hold his ground, effectively making it to where no matter what Horangi did it wouldn't get through his defense.

However, that didn't mean the fight was decided just yet.

It became clear rather quickly to Ghost he couldn't win this brawl. Not like this, anyway. He needed space. After all, it was only a matter of time before he slipped up and Horangi zoned in on his misstep and took him down. He had to make the shorter man move 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺.

He kicked out, connecting with Horangi’s knee. The Korean grunted in pain but the damn bastard didn't falter. Instead, he lunged forward, attempting to destabalize Ghost. Ghost anticipated the move however, and used the momentum to his advantage. He stepped back, grabbed Horangi’s wrist and twisted with brutal efficiency.

Horangi cried out as his wrist snapped. He felt the pain ricochet up his arm like someone set off a firecracker from the inside and it was setting off mini sparks everywhere, but didn't stop. He tried lunging forward to bite Ghost, but Ghost brought the butt of his elbow down on the back of his skull.

White flashed and Horangi staggered, momentarily stunned, and Ghost wasted no time to seize the opportunity. He swept Horangi’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground once more, only this time with less force.

That said, Ghost was on Horangi, pinning him down, before he could so much as attempt to get back up.

Horangi struggled, his eyes blazing with defiance. He bucked and writhed, trying to throw Ghost off. He managed to land a blow to Ghost's skull-mask, the force of the blow enough to wobble Ghost.

But Ghost held on.

And he continued to do so like an unmovable brick wall.

It was a sudden, decisive victory, a display of raw power that left a void where Horangi’s confidence had once resided.

Ghost loomed over his fallen adversary, his face a mask of cold fury and his chest heaving slightly from the exertion. He hadn't just fought; he had erupted. He had unleashed a fury that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long, a tempest of righteous rage that left no room for doubt that he was a force to be reckoned with, and he would extract his pound of flesh for KorTac’s treachery.

Horangi’s and Aksel’s falls were a testament to that, a stark warning echoing through the space that anyone who had crossed 141, crossed 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 would soon share a similar fate.

Soap, fueled by a primal rage and choosing to have his own revenge on the soldier who held him at gunpoint, stole Horangi’s M4A1 and bashed the Korean in the face. The crack of bone, sunglasses, and the sickening thud as Horangi’s head slammed against the concrete floor echoed through the space and forced Horangi unconscious. Officially delivering the final blow.

Ghost smirked as he looked up at the Scottsman. "Not bad, Johnny. Though I already had him."

Soap grinned. "Well, I couldn't let ya ave' all the fun, now coul' I L.T.?"

Ghost rolled his eyes. "Fun isn't the word I'd use."

Soap hummed, grin widening. "Sure, whatever you say."

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Meanwhile as Soap and Ghost began their usual banter, to the side, Gaz was locked in a furious struggle of his own. He was busy fighting Hutch, matching him blow for blow. It seemed like everything he did had no effect on the man: he goes in for a swift jab to Hutch's ribs, it gets blocked, he manages a good right hook, he gets his own blow to the face, he tries to sweep Hutch's legs and Hutch avoids it—it's never ending.

That is until finally Gaz managed to turn the tables, using the warehouse’s cluttered environment and Hutch’s lack of speed to his advantage.

Gaz ducked under a wild swing, grabbed a loose metal pipe leaning against the wall, and brought it crashing down on Hutch’s shoulder with a guttural yell. A grunt of pain followed, the American stumbling back, momentarily stunned, giving Gaz the breathing room he needed.

The fight wasn't a clean, choreographed dance, but a desperate, messy scramble for survival. Weapons lay discarded on the floor, replaced by fists, elbows, and anything else that could inflict damage.

With a final swing, Gaz landed a blow to Hutch’s head and knocked him out. He took a moment to catch his breath, silently grateful for the metal pipe, before he took a glance around to see how the rest of his team was doing.

To no surprise Ghost and Soap were already free. However, there were still three people fighting: Roach, Price, and Laswell. Price was caught in a fight with Calisto, one he was winning, which caused Gaz to smirk—of course Price would be kicking KorTac’s ass.

Roach and Laswell however could not have the same said about them. Laswell seemed to be evenly matched with Roze while Roach was up against the Ghost look-alike, Nikto. A fight he was losing horrifically.

Shit.

Roach, though smaller than Nikto, was fighting with a ferocity born of what Gaz could only describe as pure desperation.

He moved quickly, dodging Nikto's wild swings and attempting to exploit any openings, but Nikto was like a wall of muscle and cold precision. Each of his blows landed on Roach with sickening thuds, and Roach, despite what was clearly his best efforts, was beginning to slow, his movements becoming sluggish.

Gaz felt his throat tighten as he watched Nikto pull out a combat knife, feeling his heart sink as Roach ducked under the following swing that came with it, the blade whistling just past his ear. It was close. Way to fucking close.

Though before Gaz could think of doing anything he watched as Roach retaliated with a quick jab, aiming for Nikto's exposed ribs. It was a good hit, a devastating one even, but Nikto expertly deflected it with his forearm.

Gaz could tell the failed attempt to shift the tables stung, but Roach pressed on, weaving between Nikto's attacks, his mind clearly racing, trying to find an opening.

However, Nikto, as much as Gaz hated to admit it, moved with a terrifying grace, each strike precise and deadly. The sad truth was he had no openings; none Roach could ever make use of anyway. And it was clear he was done playing around with Roach.

He feinted left, then lunged right, forcing Roach to stumble backwards and seized the opportunity, lashing out with a kick that connected squarely with Roach's chest.

The force applied to Roach’s body sent him staggering back, gasping for air and before he could recover, Nikto advanced, the cold glint of his knife reflecting the dim light of the warehouse. He raised the weapon for the killing blow, Gaz took a step forward—

That's when a blur of giant muscle intervened.

Out of nowhere something Gaz couldn’t decipher from his peripheral charged over to where Nikto and Roach were fighting and bodily rammed into Roach, sending him flying into a pile of metal pipes.

The metallic clang echoed through the chaotic warehouse, momentarily silencing the other skirmishes.

Roach landed hard, the breath whooshing out of him, and he blinked, trying to clear his vision. He saw a hulking figure standing over him at the same time Gaz registered them, its form both familiar and terrifyingly out of place.

It was König.

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Roach groaned, and König felt a pang of guilt as he registered the weight of Roach's body hitting the unforgiving metal. But he pushed the feeling down.

He had a role to play.

Nikto turned, surprised but unfazed. "König? Vhat are you doing?" he growled, confusion warring with suspicion in his voice.

König didn't meet his gaze. He kept his eyes fixed on Roach's prone form, a silent apology etched on his face. "He was reaching for his sidearm," he said, his voice a low rumble. "He was about to take you down.”

He gestured to the ground where a discarded Makarov lay, having been dislodged from Roach’s holster during the brutal impact. It was a lie, a convenient fabrication, but it planted the seed of doubt in Nikto’s mind.

In truth, in the midst of the chaos, König had been shifting his gaze over the scenes unfolding before him and when he saw Roach faced with Nikto’s knife, moments away from losing his life, he couldn’t stop himself from intervening. He knew that this mission couldn’t end with 141 actually surviving, but in that moment he moved without thinking.

It was stupid—𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴.

But it felt 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

“Is that so?” Nikto drawled, that damn amusement undeniable in his voice.

König walked over and picked up the gun that had been dropped in the scuffle, ignoring the simmering anger he felt rising. “Ja, it is.” He turned to Nikto and narrowed his eyes, wordlessly challenging him to argue with him as he said, “Now I'll finish him."

He waited for Nikto to argue, body wound tight and ready for anything the man may throw at him, but the argument never came. He waited a moment, his eyes studying the Russian, sure he’d say 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, but Nikto never even so much as flinched. He just stared, like always.

König for once was grateful, and instead of drawing things out any longer chose to turn towards Roach.

The longer this took the more difficult his next decision would be.

He took a step towards the still-disoriented soldier, his heavy boots crunching on the debris-strewn floor. He could feel Nikto's eyes burning into the back of his head, questioning, probing. He ignored it. He focused on his task, on the destiny he was condemning himself to.

He reached Roach, who was struggling to sit up, his face contorted in pain. König raised his weapon, the cold metal heavy in his hands. He aimed it at Roach's chest and took a deep breath, willing his hands to remain steady.

He’d seen his team struggling earlier, and as conflicted as he felt, he knew what he had to do. He wanted to let Roach—all of 141—go, he wanted to apologize, beg for forgiveness but he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

He made his choice a long time ago, and now he had to follow through with it. There was no going back, no matter how much he wished he could turn back time and rewrite everything—choose Soap and Ghost instead of eternal suffering.

However, wishes were like stars, cold and distant, and forever out of reach. They are the silent screams of the heart, echoing into the void without answer. Always longed for, never obtained, they are a cruel reminder of dreams that will never come true.

Soap and Ghost are a dream that could never come true. Not now and not ever. And even if by some last desperate attempt to change his fate he chose to help his team lose, 141 would never welcome him back anyway. At the end of the day KorTac was the only thing he had left, he couldn’t risk losing it now.

Not for Roach or anyone on 141.

"Sorry," he muttered, the word barely audible above the din of battle. Then, instead of pulling the trigger, he was pulled back by Nikto as a bullet whizzed by. König didn’t have time to react before the sudden burst of gunfire erupted.

It took him a second, but König was able to piece together what had happened as he automatically raised his gun to back up Nikto.

In the moment he was about to shoot Roach Gaz, with a quick, practiced motion, had dived for a gun that was lost in his earlier scuffle with Hutch, turned and took aim, firing a shot toward him in order to save Roach. Nikto had noticed and pulled him out of the way before it was too late.

The bastard.

Of course he had to interfere, he couldn’t just let König die, now could he?

“Get out of there Roach!” Gaz hissed, his voice low and urgent. "Go! I'll cover you."

Roach looked over at him, confusion clouding his features. He didn't understand—his mind still foggy. But Gaz's eyes held a desperate plea, a silent message that Roach somehow understood.

Without another word, Roach, living up to his name, took advantage of Nikto and König’s focus on shooting at Gaz to scurry off towards where the majority of 141 was taking cover.

As he stumbled to stand, König watched him through the corner of his eye. He had a clear opportunity to kick Roach back down, keep him from escaping, but instead he shifted his focus back to firing at Gaz.

He was the more important threat, König reasoned with himself.

That was the only reason why it was only once Roach was on his feet and a good distance away that König finally acted.

He straightened up, leveling the makarov at where Roach was running away and fired at him, the sound adding to the cacophony of mini-fights happening all around the factory.

"He’s getting away!" König shouted, his voice laced with frustration. "Damn it!"

Nikto narrowed his eyes, studying König's movements, his expression unreadable. König held his breath, waiting for the inevitable accusation, the questioning gaze that would pierce his carefully constructed facade. But Nikto only grunted, moving to take cover from Gaz as he joined in on shooting down Roach.

“Then ve’ll just ave’ to take him down," Nikto said, his voice curt. König let out a shaky breath, relief washing over him in a cold wave. He managed to escape Nikto this time, a small victory. But the guilt from earlier remained, a heavy weight in his chest.

He had betrayed 141, and now, despite everything, he had betrayed his own team—no matter how small his actions were.

He was a traitor to both sides, caught in a web of his own making, and he knew that the only thing waiting for him at the end of this battle, win or lose, was more suffering.

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Shots whizzed past Roach’s head like a hailstorm. One, aimed too low, hit him in the shoulder and he grunted in pain, momentarily faltering, but he pushed through the pain, spurred on by the adrenaline and the need to fight.

He couldn't let himself fall here; his team needed him and if he stopped for a single moment he was sure that it'd be his last. There was nothing he could do but grit his teeth and keep moving. He wouldn't die here, not today.

Not like this.

Thankfully, he wasn’t left to fend for himself for long, for as soon as the sudden bloom of crimson on his uniform formed gunfire rained down on Nikto and König as he ran towards cover, each shot poised with deadly accuracy.

Ghost and Soap.

Roach smirked.

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Laswell, still in a standoff against Roze, took advantage of the sudden momentary shift in focus of her opponent as the gunfire broke out and flipped Roze over her shoulder, sending her crashing to the ground with more force than necessary.

Roze bent double, trying to regain her breath, but before she could Laswell was on her in an instant. She grabbed Roze’s arm, twisting it with brutal force, sending a sharp and audible 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 through the air. Roze let out a strangled cry, her face contorting in pain.

However, Laswell’s victory didn’t last long as a bullet whizzed by and pierced her cheek. She quickly rolled to the side, grabbing Roze’s sidearm as she did so, and took cover as more bullets rained down on her position.

“Shit,” She muttered as she fired off a couple of shots, trying to hold off KorTac’s efforts to advance on her team's position. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. They had almost made it home without incident.

𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵.

Price, with a roar that could shake the foundations of the factory, rallied his team. "FALL BACK! FIND COVER!"

“THAT’S EASIER SAID THAN DONE!” Soap shouted back, firing off a few shots of his own as he tried to provide cover. Ghost was beside him scanning the floor for his own weapon. “HOWS ROACH DOING!?”

“I’M FINE. I BARELY FEEL IT!”

“NOW'S NOT THE TIME TO ACT TOUGH YA LYING BASTARD!”

“HOW ABOUT YOU FOCUS ON NOT GETTING SHOT INSTEAD OF WORRYING ABOUT ME!” Roach countered, scurrying behind a wall of metal pipes. He quickly turned around, aiming his own sidearm to fire off a couple of shots. Gaz quickly joined him, having escaped Nikto and König, buying precious seconds as everyone searched for a way out.

“Keep your head down!” Gaz shouted, ducking low as bullets ricocheted off the pipes. They exchanged quick glances, Gaz tilting his head toward the lights hanging from the ceiling before gesturing to a door across the room, a silent understanding passing between them as they swapped places, preparing to make their next move.

Once situated, Gaz tossed a piece of debris from the ground over to where Soap, Ghost, Laswell, and Price were huddled up, hitting Soap in the arm. The Scotsman turned towards him and quickly understood their intentions as Gaz re-gestured his previous movements. Once Soap informed the others they all waited for Roach’s move.

With adrenaline pumping through his veins, said man made a dash toward a nearby exit just a few moments later. The sound of gunfire echoed in the cramped space, but Roach’s focus remained sharp; he knew that hesitation could mean the difference between life and death, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be the one leaving in a body bag.

Besides, he still needed to get back at König for that earlier shove—give him a peace of his mind. Maybe a face full of his fist as well.

As Roach sprinted forward, he could feel the shatter of glass falling from the sky as Gaz shot out the lights, feel the sting of his bullet wound pulsing, hear footsteps following him, feel the heat of the bullets whizzing past him, each one a reminder of the danger lurking just out of sight.

Fear clawed at the edges of his mind, a constant whisper of doubt. But Gaz's steady aim provided a reassuring cover, and with each step, Roach, followed by the rest of his team, pushed himself harder, determined to reach the exit before the chaos fully erupted.

They managed to make it out of the room, disappearing into the shadows just as KorTac started to get their bearings from the sudden blackout. Everyone knew they wouldn’t be safe for long. They needed a plan, and they needed it now.

Thankfully, they stumbled into a small, dingy room hidden away behind a stack of damaged crates rather quickly. It was cramped and barely lit by a single flickering bulb, the air thick with the smell of dust, the door a flimsy piece of metal, hardly a fortress, but it was a small blessing nonetheless.

They slammed the door shut, the sound a stark counterpoint to the sudden quiet in the room.

Price slumped against a wall, his breathing ragged. His eyes scanned over each member of the team, his expression a volatile mix of rage and concern.

Roach was nursing his shoulder, but the wound didn't seem too severe.

Ghost remained silent, his gaze fixed on an unseen point on the wall, his body radiating a coiled tension that threatened to erupt at any moment.

Soap and Gaz were checking their surroundings, their movements tense and alert. Laswell was quiet, her face radiating a silent fury.

"A’right first things first,” Price started, his voice deep and barely steady with contained anger as his eyes danced across the soldiers standing before him, taking in each of their status’ before landing on a specific soldier: Roach. “How badly are you hurt?”

Roach shrugged, wincing as the movement jostled his injured shoulder. "It's just a graze, sir. Nothing a little bit of bandaging can't fix. I'll be alright.”

Price nodded. “Okay then,” he turned his gaze back to the group. “A’right, listen up everyone. The mission hasn’t changed. It’s only got more complicated s’all.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“I know most of you are probably as pissed as I am, an’ rightfully so. We were betrayed, used, but we can’t let tha’ cripple us. We still need to secure those mis–iles. Tha’s the priority.”

Gaz stepped forward, his voice laced with anger and a hint of desperation. “Fuck tha’! I say let’s get some revenge on those bastards first, then we can get to the mission. Hell, I’m goin’ to skin tha’ Roze bitch alive the second I see her for how she treated Laswell,” Gaz argued, his hands clenching into fists. “I will personally rip her throat out.”

“An’ I’ll be right behind you to help,” Roach added, his voice a low growl rumbling in his throat. “No one gets away with treating one of our own like tha’.”

Price held up a hand, his gaze sharp. “Revenge can wait. We need a plan first to figure out how we can get out O’ ere’, secure the mis–iles, and make sure to not die.”

Soap slammed a fist against a metal pipe with a loud and angry clang. “An’ how exactly are we supposed to do tha’!? For all we know more KorTac bastards are on their way while we’re holed up in a damn closet!”

“We adapt, Soap,” Ghost growled, his voice low and dangerous. His hands were balled into tight fists as he glared at the wall. "We’re not goin’ to let a little betrayal stop us, are we?” He shifted his gaze to Soap, his eyes narrow with anger.

Soap remained silent, his gaze locked with Ghost’s, a turbulent mix of anger and desperation swirling within them.

They stayed like that for a few seconds, each passing like a minute before Soap sighed and looked away.

“Fuckin’ fine, ya win. But wha’ the hell do you suppose we do, huh? We're outnumbered an’ outgunned in case you dinnae notice.”

Laswell, who had remained silent until now, stepped forward. “I’d like to add something to the conversation, if you boys don’t mind.”

Price threw an arm out, gesturing towards the empty space that was formed in the middle of their makeshift circle of bodies. “By all means Laswell, don’t hold out on us now.”

Laswell nodded. “Okay, look, we all knew things could go south, but I do know we didn't expect 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 level of betrayal. That being said, I had a feeling that KorTac might not be entirely trustworthy which is why I took the liberty of obtaining the files of all the soldiers on this particular operation.”

She pulled out a small hard drive, plugging it into a small tactical tablet she had managed to conceal on her person. A moment later, files began to appear across its screen.

“We can use this to anticipate their movements and find holes in whatever strategy they’ve made. It also shows their personal files. All of them. Including those of our dear friend,” a tap of a button followed by the loading of a file that opened and displayed its contents, “König.”

The group fell eerily silent with those words, each person’s face a mix of different emotions as the wound König had dealt ripped itself open once more.

For a moment no one made a single move as Laswell held the tablet out for someone to take, not until Soap finally breached the rift and grabbed it from her hands.

Soap stared at the tablet, his jaw working. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, and he was desperately trying to rewind it. Denial clung to him like a second skin. Like he desperately wanted to believe that despite everything he’d still meant something to König, that it all hadn’t been some huge lie.

He’d fought alongside König, bled alongside him, shared his artwork with him, watched movies with him, and started to love him. And he’d thought that had meant something to König—that he’d cared about him too.

Sure, maybe it wasn’t love, but he’d believed somewhere deep inside that König had at least cared about him—thought of him as a friend.

König may have left with a sad excuse of an apology, but a part of Soap (despite all the anger) had understood. He and Ghost sprung their affection on König on a whim, unsure if he even liked guys, and just expected him to reciprocate. There was always a risk that König wouldn’t feel the same, and Soap had—begrudgingly—accepted that. Knew it could be the end of a friendship.

That wasn’t what had angered him—𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 him. What angered him and was the true reason behind his hostility was how König didn’t simply 𝘴𝘢𝘺 that. How he tried to avoid the situation by pretending to be sent away.

It had seemed obvious König felt guilty for not feeling the same way he and Ghost did about him and that he didn’t want to hurt them by turning them down so he chose the ‘easy’ solution: leaving. He went to Price and asked to be sent back to KorTac.

However, the events that had just unfolded, the cold, hard truth, was undeniable. König hadn’t ever cared about them.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hurt him or Ghost, or that he felt guilty, it was simply that he’d already completed his mission to get intel on 141 and saw the whole interaction as a perfect reason to leave without suspicion.

König was playing them from the very beginning, never truly giving a shit about him, Gaz, Roach, Ghost—any of them.

A vein throbbed in Soap’s temple, a physical manifestation of the rage simmering beneath the surface the longer he looked at the newly open file belonging to one Austrian.

With more force than necessary he passed the tablet to Gaz, after quickly sanning the other files, and swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising in his throat.

Gaz admittedly tried to waste as much time as he could looking over the other members of KorTac’s files after being handed the tablet, but in the end he was forced to face the nightmare that was reality.

He stared at the screen, jaw tight, his knuckles white as he clenched his fist. He was a picture of denial battling with a rising tide of rage as he looked König’s file over—just like Soap.

There was a flicker of denial in his eyes, a desperate hope that there was some mistake, some other explanation. But there was also resignation.

He knew that no matter how hard he wanted to believe this was all some sick prank that reality wouldn’t change. It was Graves all over again. He was betrayed and left to rot like some disregarded piece of trash for the second time.

Nothing could change that, and it hurt.

It hurt so much because he genuinely believed that his friendship had meant something to König—that all of their friendships had. But the way König had pointed his gun at Roach, almost pulled the trigger, there was no denying that.

There was no way for Gaz to find a reason that would allow König to be the person he’d thought he was.

The König he knew was gone, if he ever even existed, and Gaz felt like he was going to explode.

He passed the tablet to Roach.

Roach shifted uncomfortably as he accepted the tablet, his usually steadfast demeanor cracking under the strain. Hurt and anger warred on his face behind the neck gaiter, a tempest of emotions churning beneath a façade of calm.

With every passing moment, it became increasingly clear that König, whom they had once trusted, had never cared about them. That he’d always planned to rip their lives to shreds from the very second he stepped foot onto 141 soil.

Roach’s fingers dug into his injured shoulder, an instinctual response to the pain of a friend turned foe. Deep down, he was pained not only by the physical wound on his body but the betrayal and burgeoning guilt for having ever trusted König.

If he could take it all back, he would. But it was far too late for that now.

He couldn’t take back the kindness he’d granted König.

Couldn’t take back the warmth he’d felt hearing König joke and laugh with them.

And certainly couldn’t take back the longing he’d felt for König to come back when he was sent away because, as much as he hated to admit it, König had felt like family. Like he’d belonged at 141.

He turned to Price and handed off the tablet, wincing at the demeanor of his captain.

Price stood rigid, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched in his cheek. He stared blankly at the tablet, his eyes darting across the files and spending a generous amount of time on König’s, as if he was searching for an explanation, an excuse, anything to answer how he’d missed the signs of who König really was.

But the harsh reality held him captive. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he battled the rising tide of rage simmering just beneath the surface.

The realization that he had been deceived gnawed at him, the feeling of being blindsided dragging him deeper into anger.

He had always trusted his team, and now it felt like a betrayal of the highest order. His mind whirred rapidly, strategizing how they could use this information and get revenge on every single last person residing in KorTac while still completing the mission.

With a deep breath, Price handed the file over to Ghost, unable to ignore the further sting of shame and guilt as he remembered how Ghost tried to warn him of König so many months ago.

Ghost's eyes instantly locked onto König’s profile the second he got his hands onto the tablet. His jaw tightened, the faintest twitch of muscle in his shoulders betraying the fury boiling within him.

The storm of emotion was back, and it was stronger than ever, threatening to overwhelm the carefully constructed walls he'd built around himself, cutting deeper than any bullet.

He felt the familiar rage rising, fueled by the burning of his lips from where only a few hours ago he’d kissed the very man who stabbed him in the back. He wanted to scream, rage, curse, get some form of answers, but he knew he couldn’t do or gain anything. He couldn't lash out due to the circumstances and this file couldn’t provide him with answers no matter how much he willed it to.

The file was no different than the first time he’d seen it, a sad, ugly truth, and yet for some reason it felt like he was looking at it all for the first time. The crisp white background, filled with sterile black text and grainy, outdated photographs, mocked him.

It was only a few months ago he’d barged into Price’s office demanding this exact file, fueled by a curiosity that had bordered on obsession. Back then, he couldn’t wrap his mind around what everything stated on these pages had meant.

The man described in this file seemed like such a far-fetched truth, only believable thanks to an unidentifiable feeling wrapping its way around him and settling deep into his bones like a sickness.

But now, now it seemed like this file was a sad, almost pathetic, attempt at trying to describe who König really was—a monster far worse than anything written on paper could portray.

This file didn’t do the Austrian justice.

No, it painted a picture of a threat, but a threat contained within the rigid borders of military jargon and psychological profiles.

In truth, he was far more dangerous than what these words stated. More cunning, more deceiving, more heartless, and more vicious.

An all-around devil in disguise.

He played Soap, Gaz, Price, Roach, even 𝙝𝙞𝙢, with the detached precision of a scientist experimenting on a rat without any remorse. Not even so much as a second, fleeting thought.

The file hinted at brutality, but it couldn't convey the cold, calculated cruelty in König’s eyes as he dismantled a man, piece by piece, not for information, not for the mission, but for… amusement.

To think for even a second Ghost had thought he could love something like König made bile rise in the back of his throat. The memory of those quiet nights in the rec room, the shared quiet, the stolen touches, felt like a cruel joke played on him by his own naive heart. He’d mistaken the flicker of fire in König's eyes for warmth, when it was simply the inferno of his own twisted soul.

Ghost felt the painful sting of muscles tensing in his jaw as his teeth pressed against one another in a bruising force. The near-dead light of the room hummed, amplifying the pounding in his temples.

It was taking everything within him to remain calm the longer he looked at König’s file. He wanted to tear it to shreds, to obliterate any trace of the man from existence. But the information was crucial, vital to understanding the threat KorTac now posed.

He had to put his emotions aside.

He hit the next file.

It was a small blessing, a momentary reprieve, when the screen was forcefully turned to the next soldier. But that feeling didn’t last for long as he saw who the next soldier was. It was the Korean, the one who seemed rather close to König since he first witnessed the way the two interacted with one another.

Somehow, that only made his mood worse, an unwanted, insidious tendril of jealousy coiling in his gut as he was forced to think of how close the two were, the easy teamwork, the shared glances. He imagined them sitting together, sharing small gestures—a hand on the shoulder, a small playful shove into one another—and the image burned like acid.

Was Horangi just another pawn in König's scheme? Was he being used, just as Ghost had been? Or was Horangi someone König actually cared for—one he wouldn’t betray?

Somehow that idea was worse than thinking König might do what he did to him and Soap to another person.

Just great. So much for putting emotions aside.

He massaged his temples, trying to quell the building rage. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by personal feelings. He had a mission. He had to find König, stop him, and ensure he could never hurt anyone again. He had to be objective, clinical. He had to be 𝙂𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩.

But even beneath the mask, the pain throbbed, a constant, agonizing reminder of the monster he had allowed himself to trust. And the bitter truth: he still didn't know how to fully deal with König—if he could even kill him.

However, perhaps that mystery was his retribution for all the sins he’s committed and for the naivety of his actions.

He took a deep, steadying breath, forcing the memories, the betrayal, and the simmering anger to the back of his mind as he focused on the newly open file, biting his cheek. It was time to see what kind of people König’s team were. See what other monsters they've let sneak up on them.

𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚: 𝘒𝘪𝘮 𝘏𝘰𝘯𝘨-𝘫𝘪𝘯
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙎𝙞𝙜𝙣: 𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪
𝙍𝙖𝙘𝙚: 𝘈𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯
𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮: 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘯
𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝘽𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙝: 𝘑𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯-𝘨𝘶𝘯, 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢
𝘼𝙜𝙚: 25
𝙃𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 183.5 𝘤𝘮
𝙒𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 198 𝘐𝘣𝘴.
𝘽𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙏𝙮𝙥𝙚: B+
𝘼𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤
𝙊𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙍𝙖𝙣𝙠: 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘧𝘧 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵
𝙃𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮: 𝘌𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘧 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘺 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 2017. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘺 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴, 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 13𝘵𝘩 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘥𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 ‘𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪’, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘯—𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩, 𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨; 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘒𝘪𝘮 𝘏𝘰𝘯𝘨-𝘫𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘨𝘺. 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭, 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤 𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘚𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳, 2020. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤 (𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘱𝘨. 11 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵). 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘑𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯-𝘨𝘶𝘯, 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢. 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵.

𝙃𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙞.

𝘛𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘳.

The nickname fit, Ghost had to admit. The Korean fit the image of a tiger lying in wait perfectly, a wild beast whose presence didn’t ring any alarms until he was already rushing out of the shadows and pouncing on you.

He remembered the way the Korean moved during their fight, a controlled fury barely contained within one man.

The Korean wasn’t someone to scoff at, that was for sure.

𝘿𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘌𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘈 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴.

...𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘌𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴...

Those words mocked Ghost. König was a walking nightmare, a behemoth of repressed pain and barely contained rage. And Horangi, with his easy smile and confident posture, was connected to that. This upstanding, supposedly kind and understanding man, was linked with König.

Ghost could practically taste the bitterness rising in his throat. How could someone so…𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭...be so deeply intertwined with someone like König? The answer was simple: they couldn’t. The cheerful assessment felt hollow, and it probably was.

'Likable?' Maybe to the green recruits, the pencil pushers safely tucked behind desks. But Ghost had seen the predatory gleam in Horangi's eyes behind the sunglasses, the cold calculation just before he went in to kill him. Not stop, but kill. The almost…clinical precision. It wasn't the face of a real soldier.

'Selfless?' He wanted to laugh. Everyone had an agenda. Every soldier followed orders, but they followed them for reasons that were intertwined with their own self-preservation, their own ambitions, their own twisted sense of justice. Horangi was no different. He was sure the selflessness was only allowed as long as it served the mission, served 𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪.

No, there was something else there, something festering beneath the surface of this ‘highly skilled’ soldier. A darkness masked by smiles and camaraderie. He was no different than König, Ghost was sure of it. Just a monster in a different cage.

What demons was Horangi hiding? What atrocities had he committed in the name of duty, of survival? Ghost would find out. He always did. He had a knack for peeling back the layers of deception, for exposing the rotten core beneath the polished exterior.

And when he did, when the truth came crawling out from the shadows, Ghost would be ready. He would make sure the world had one less evil lurking behind every corner, one less monster masquerading as a soldier. He’d make sure that the monster known as Horangi never hurt anyone else.

𝗠𝗮𝗷𝗼𝗿 𝗜𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀: 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘣𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘺𝘮𝘣𝘰𝘭𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘳-𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯.

Ghost pictured the scar hidden behind the Korean's sunglasses and neck gaiter, a jagged line carving its way across Horangi’s otherwise smooth face. A permanent reminder of some past conflict, some battle hard-fought. A silent testament to a life lived on the edge of a blade. A life Ghost knew intimately. He understood the language of scars, the brutal punctuation marks that marked the chapters of a soldier's story. But this one, hidden and hinted at, sparked something ugly inside him.

His mind, unbidden, flashed back. He was buried alive. The cloying scent of damp earth, the agonizing pressure crushing his lungs, the utter, suffocating darkness. Roba's twisted grin, the sound of shovels burying him under the weight of betrayal... He'd clawed his way out. Literally. Nails ripped, fingers bleeding, driven by a primal scream that tore through his throat. He'd emerged a monster, resurrected in rage and fueled by vengeance. A monster he still wrestled with every goddamn day.

That was the price of survival. A price Horangi likely paid in his own way.

And that's where the hate coiled, a venomous serpent striking at his peace. Because despite everything, Ghost found himself seeing a sliver of himself in the Korean. A shared understanding, forged in the fires of violence. He despised it.

But he despised how his brain, despite his wishes, forced ideas of König tracing that scar, maybe even placing a kiss there, to the front of his mind even more.

The thoughts were like a live wire touched to his skin.

And the tattoos... intricate, bold, a testament to Horangi’s heritage and a predatory warning. The image of the tiger, prowling beneath the surface. It made Ghost’s skin itch. Did König know? Had Horangi shown them off, bragging about his ‘fierce and relentless nature’? Had König run his own fingers over the inked skin, feeling the muscles beneath?

Ghost clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. He knew he was being irrational. Jealousy gnawed at him, a green-eyed monster he couldn't control. It wasn't that he even 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 König, not anymore. He couldn’t. He 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵. It was just…the idea of them together was disturbing is all.

𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙮: 𝘊𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦-𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵, 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱, 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘱𝘴.
𝙈𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘺𝘭𝘦, 𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴. 𝘈𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 "𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦" 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥.

𝘖𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦.

An understatement, if he'd ever seen one. Ghost once again remembered their earlier fight, the way Horangi had moved, a blur of controlled violence, and if the Korean had been up against any other opponent he probably would’ve won and continued on to leave a trail of bodies in his wake.

It wasn't just efficiency he moved with; it was a bloodlust barely masked by his professional demeanor. He was a skilled soldier, one not to be taken lightly, and a beast ready to be unleashed.

𝘈 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘴...

Ghost sighed and swiped the screen which flickered, distracting him momentarily as the next soldier’s name pulsed into existence.

Ghost nearly snapped the tablet in half.

𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰.

Chapter Text

𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚: 𝘒𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘋𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘐𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘷
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙎𝙞𝙜𝙣: 𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰
𝙍𝙖𝙘𝙚: 𝘊𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯
𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮: 𝘙𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯
𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝘽𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙝: 𝘐𝘳𝘬𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘬, 𝘙𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘢
𝘼𝙜𝙚: 36
𝙃𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 180.34 𝘤𝘮
𝙒𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 218 𝘐𝘣𝘴.
𝘽𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙏𝙮𝙥𝙚: A+
𝘼𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤
𝙊𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙍𝙖𝙣𝙠: 𝘓𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵 (𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵)
𝙃𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮: 𝘑𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘈𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘭, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 2005. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩-𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘬 𝘰𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘴, 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘹 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘻 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤 𝘪𝘯 𝘖𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 2024. 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘔𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘸, 𝘙𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘢. 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵.
𝘿𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘍𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧. 𝘙𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘮 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯—𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯-𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥.
𝗠𝗮𝗷𝗼𝗿 𝗜𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀: 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘭𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴.
𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙮: 𝘊𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦-𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵, 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘱𝘴, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦
𝙈𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺. 𝘈𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 "𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴" 𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥-𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘥" 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥.

𝙉𝙞𝙠𝙩𝙤.

Just reading the name made Ghost’s hair stand on end, his blood boiling to the point it felt like his skin would sear off.

He's heard of the Russian before—selfishly had hoped to never cross paths with him; the soldier rumored to have wiped out an entire battalion just to send a message, leaving behind only a trail of carnage and screams that echoed the Russian’s name and struck terror into the hearts of those who heard them.

He was a natural threat to any path he crossed, a reaper in his own right, and a damnation Ghost never wanted to meet. It was fitting, ironic even, that he be here—be linked with 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨. And not just in the form of being a part of the same faction either; no, there was something else there—a bond.

An alliance of monsters.

It was proven the moment Ghost witnessed Nikto step in to defend König against Johnny. There’d been zero hesitation, and for a split second it’d even seemed like Nikto moved with the intent to silence Soap permanently rather than simply put up a physical barrier between the raging Scotsman and passive Austrian (something that had Ghost moving in with the same intention towards Nikto.)

However, it appeared their relationship was rather one-sided. König had seemed just as surprised as everyone else when Nikto had moved in; hell, he’d even seemed 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘥 after the initial shock wore off. Something that was certainly intriguing, yet somehow didn’t help ease the knot in Ghost’s stomach (if anything, it only worsened it.)

There was something about the way Nikto watched König, the almost…protective aura he exuded whenever the masked giant was near, that reeked of something deeper than simple camaraderie. It made Ghost’s skin itch with a desire to force the Russian’s eyes away from König, to rip them out to ensure they stay off of the Austrian—off of what was his—

𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳… Ghost silently scolded himself, gritting his teeth.

He took a quick, stabilizing breath, forcing himself to focus on the objective, on the sterile data instead of the nagging feelings threatening to tear him apart from the seams.

He had a job to do, and nothing was going to distract him from it. There was a time and a place for things like this and now was certainly not the time or place. If he let himself get lost in these…𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 he’d never manage to find his way out. He had to nip this in the bud 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

No excuses.

His hands tightened around the tablet in a near shattering grip as he allowed his eyes to continue roaming the screen in front of him.

This was his priority.

This was his objective.

This was his 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦.

The file painted a picture of a machine, a man hardened and sharpened by years of brutal service. A man who was, according to the file, a soldier's nightmare. Or maybe it was only his nightmare the file described.

As Ghost read, the knot in his stomach tightened. The words flipped like index cards in his mind, each one sending a chilling realization seeping over him—Nikto bore an eerily similar presence to himself: ruthless, efficient, and a master of the hunt. It shouldn’t have surprised him, and yet it did. The confirmation felt almost like a betrayal, ripping at the fabric of his own identity.

This wasn’t the first time Ghost’s felt like this, on the contrary, he felt this way reading König’s file and yet, this was an entirely different sensation at the same time.

König, while similar, was still drastically different in comparison to him: personality, the way he fought, description—all of it was different. Other than the mask and shroud of mystery König was nothing like him. But Nikto, he was a scarred reflection that made Ghost want to 𝘳𝘶𝘯.

The two of them had opened the same door to darkness, walked the same bloodsoaked paths, endured torture, betrayal, and emerged as different shades of horror. Both so similar the lines blurred between them to the point you could no longer tell who was who anymore, yet still so different. If only in morals—in how they controlled the monster they’d been shaped into.

That scarily similar vein between them stirred a visceral anger within—Ghost never liked seeing himself in anyone (no matter how small) least of all a man like Nikto. It was unsettling and downright terrifying.

𝘏𝘢𝘥 𝘒𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰? 𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮? 𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦—

𝙉𝙤.

𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱.

That didn’t matter.

He wasn’t standing here surveying this file because he was some jealous, insecure boyfriend who'd got his hands on the file of a man threatening his relationship and he was going to use whatever he found to get the man to back off, that wasn’t why he was here. It didn’t matter what König had or hadn’t seen.

He was standing here reading this file because König, along with the rest of his bloody team, had run a knife into his back—had 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 them.

Betrayed 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

That's what mattered.

Ghost clenched his jaw. He needed to stop forgetting that. Now wasn’t the time to be letting emotions rule. Not when there were other lives on the line beside his own. Not when it was his teams, his friends, his 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺’𝘴 lives at stake.

He bit down on his cheek, using the pain to ground himself, before quickly scrolling through the remainder of KorTac’s files, cataloging every piece of information he came across. It felt like too little and yet too much at the same time. There was never enough information where he wanted it and too much where he never needed it.

Each soldier was highly skilled, something to be expected, but that didn’t change how each one was of a higher caliber than estimated. It only confirmed the stakes were greater than ever, and he was standing at the precipice of something dark and inevitable. He had to tread carefully; this was a game fraught with monsters, and it was clear that this was far from over. In fact, it felt like it was just beginning.

A warning in its own right.

Ghost closed the tablet, the digital words burning into his retinas and seeping into his very soul, and wordlessly handed the tablet back to Price.

Price took it easily and handed it back to Laswell, but not before taking a moment to study him, his eyes questioning. They bore into Ghost like they could see right through him, 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 him. It was something Ghost hated about the older man since he first met him.

That illusion.

Price was the first person to look at him like he was still human, like he wasn’t beyond hope after what happened. It was as if he could see all the broken pieces within that still existed, hoping to find their way back to one another yet never being able to, and decided that they were enough the way they were. That it didn’t matter how broken down they’d become—that 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 become, because they simply existed. They showed he was still human despite everything.

Price was wrong, of course. It was too late for him. The pieces of who he was were long past fixing or simply being enough and somewhere deep down Ghost was sure Price knew that too. It was why he felt the need—subconsciously or not—to do these little check-ins in the first place, but that seemed to be a pattern of Price’s—he took in hopeless strays. And no matter how many times they bit and growled back, he never gave up on them, always seeming to know what they were thinking or feeling to get through to them—no, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 them was better fitting.

And right now those eyes were figuring out how to control him. They were reading him and deciding if he was good to continue on or if his leash needed to be tightened.

Ghost hated it but allowed it (no point in fighting when it's a definite losing battle.) And after what felt like far too long under a microscope for Ghost’s liking, Price turned back to the rest of the team, seemingly satisfied with whatever conclusion he came to.

It was a small reprieve, but a reprieve nonetheless.

“A’right, it’s time to get movin’," Price's voice, low and gravelly, cut through the tension. “Wha’ are we lookin’ at, Kate? Numbers, firepower, everythin’.”

Laswell pocketed the tablet. "Assuming they came prepared, they’ll have a significant advantage in firearms and tactical gear. And we can assume there will be considerably more KorTac soldiers arriving. There's simply no easy way to say this, they're well-ahead of us, John. Whether we like it or not we’re at a disadvantage here."

Price’s jaw tightened, the lines around his eyes deepening. He ran a hand over his beard, the gesture betraying a flicker of concern that he immediately masked. "Then we make sure they don't 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 ahead.” He turned, his eyes lingering on Roach for a moment. “Think you’ll be able to continue?”

Roach winced, his hand pressed tightly against the makeshift bandage on his left shoulder. He’d done what he could, but blood still seeped through the fabric.

"It'll hold, sir," Roach grunted, his voice strained but determined. Like hell he was sitting this out.

Price nodded, guilt flickering in his eyes. "Right, tha’s good to hear…” He cleared his throat and turned away.

“Now then, everyone listen up. We aren’t going to sit ere’ an’ wait for those arseholes to come to us. Instead, we'll bring the fight to them. Soap, you an’ Roach sweep the lower levels, Laswell an’ Gaz you two will take the high ground an’,” a pointed side glance towards a certain masked man, “Ghost an’ I will clear the path ahead, understood?"

A chorus of agreement rippled through the room. However, Price's gaze lingered on Ghost once again, his eyes piercing in a silent challenge that practically screamed for Ghost to just try and do anything funny like go off on his own.

Ghost offered him nothing more than turning his gaze away, his mask concealing the small simmer of irritation he felt.

It seemed Price had made his decision: tighten the leash.

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘯.

It was reasonable, he knew that. And after his outburst against König earlier it was to be expected, but that didn’t make it any easier.

There was a small sigh, no doubt from Price, and then the feeling of eyes watching were gone.

"A’right," Price barked, his voice low and tight. "Let's move. They know we're ere’, an’ they'll be hunting. Let's make sure they know we aren’t the ones that’ll be the prey."

Ghost, along with everyone else, nodded his acknowledgement, positioning himself behind Price. He was ready to put this to a close, that was for sure, but he couldn’t ignore the prickle of unease he felt. The silence felt wrong, too absolute. He knew they were walking into a trap. The only question was, what kind? And how many were waiting for them?

The answer, he suspected, was more than they could handle. But they had no choice. They had to move forward. They had to survive. And Ghost, no matter what, would ensure they did. No one would die here today—not on his watch.

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8 ᗰIᑎᑌTᗴՏ, 32 ՏᗴᑕOᑎᗪՏ Iᑎ

T.F. 141 moved like wraiths through the dimly lit corridors, the air thick with the smell of oil and decay. The factory was a labyrinth of machinery, catwalks, conveyor belts frozen mid-operation, and forgotten storage rooms—a perfect hunting ground.

Each step was taken with bated breath as time seemed to slow until every movement felt weighed down. Every minute, every second, all of it a tick in the time bomb to what would be a symphony of catastrophe.

“Laswell, you got anythin’?" Price asked, his voice a low rumble that cut through the silence wafting through the air. It was the first sound, besides from old creaks and the sound of shoes shuffling, to be heard since they set out on their new mission.

Laswell pulled out the tablet from earlier, her face illuminating with a faded white.

"Satellite intel confirms more KorTac units have just landed. They're swarming the factory. At least another twenty. They're spread out, focusing on securing the perimeter and sweeping the interior.”

“An’ our position?”

“We're in a sub-level maintenance tunnel. According to the schematics there are multiple entry points to the missile storage area we’ll have easy access to but they'll be heavily guarded now, it won’t be easy, John."

"Damn it," Price muttered.

Gaz, ever the optimist, attempted a wry grin. "Least we know their names now, eh? Thanks to your little black book, Laswell."

Laswell offered a grim smile in return. "Don't get cocky, sergeant. Knowing their names doesn't make them any less dangerous.”

“Yeah, but it does give me something to have a right good moan ‘bout.”

Laswell chuckled. “That it does.”

“Laswell, comms are all secured, yeah? They can’t eavesdrop?” Price asked, eyes scanning the corridors as they moved. His shoulders were wound tight, body full of tension. A man who knew he was being hunted.

"Confirmed," Laswell replied. "We’ve been switched to a secure channel.”

“Good,” Price replied, a determined glint in his eye. “Right then, it’s time we split up.”

He gestured to a rusty metal staircase that creaked ominously as it descended.

“Roach, Soap, you lot take point. Ghost, remember you’re with me. Laswell, keep us in the loop on their movements. We’ll stick to the shadows an’ use the terrain to our advantage. Let’s give these traitors a proper lesson in what happens when you mess with the 141. Yeah?”

"Copy tha’, Captain.” Gaz grinned.

“Yes, sir,” Roach and Ghost said in perfect unison.

“Bet your arse we will.” Soap grunted.

Laswell chuckled as she nodded along. “Let's give 'em’ hell boys.” She muttered.

With a final check of their gear, they moved out, splitting into their designated teams.

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11 ᗰIᑎᑌTᗴՏ, 3 ՏᗴᑕOᑎᗪՏ Iᑎ,
ᖇOᗩᑕᕼ ᗩᑎᗪ ՏOᗩᑭ

Roach hissed, cradling his injured shoulder as they walked, the makeshift bandage he applied doing little to quell the throbbing ache. The bullet had torn through the flesh and right out the other side, leaving a burning trail of agony ricocheting throughout his body.

He’d done the best he could to patch himself up with the limited supplies they had, making himself functional, but far from one hundred percent. Soap, of course, noticed his hiss of pain and noticeably grew more tense—𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺.

"Bastards," Soap spat, his usually jovial face a mask of grim fury. "Knew we couldn't trust 'em."

Roach sighed, glancing at their surroundings as they moved. The lower levels were a maze of rusted pipes, decaying machinery, and pools of stagnant water, only helping to increase the tension and agitation in the air (something a certain Scotsman did 𝘯𝘰𝘵 need right now.)

He glanced back towards said man, noting how tense Soap’s shoulders were and the way his finger seemed to frequently ghost over his trigger, as if he couldn’t wait to release his anger. It felt wrong to see Soap like this, but in a way it was to be expected. He knew who Soap was really referring to when he said ‘them’. Really, there was no other possibility, only one man, one 𝘈𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯, seemed to get under Soap’s skin like this: König.

The name hung heavy in the air, a death tull that spoke of betrayal and deceit. A name that caused a mix of emotions that crashed and whirled like a stormy sea. Anger, hurt, guilt, disbelief—everyone felt some form of these and each tried to fight for center stage in their hearts.

For Roach, he was mostly stuck between anger that simmered just beneath the surface, a white-hot rage directed squarely at KorTac, and disbelief. It just seemed so… surreal what had happened only minutes ago. The giant Austrian had been with them for several months, a calm and dependable presence. He'd even shared a few awkward, yet genuine, laughs with König over late-night run-ins. König’s betrayal felt like a particularly cruel gut punch. But he could only imagine how it felt for someone like Soap who had actually gotten significantly close to König, spending nearly every moment he could hanging around the Austrian.

However, no matter how justified Soap’s emotions were they couldn’t be allowed to go unchecked; the situation was simply too dangerous at the moment.

"Focus, Soap," Roach grunted, shaking his head to clear the fog of pain and betrayal. "König made his choice. He's the enemy now. Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgement."

"Easy for you to say," Soap muttered, his jaw tight. Then, louder, so Roach could hear, "He seemed like a decent bloke. All tha’ time... guess it was all shite."

They rounded a corner, their weapons raised. Roach opened his mouth, ready to offer words of consolement—to tell Soap he wasn’t alone and that it’d be okay, even if it didn’t feel like it at the moment, that this wasn’t the end—when everything came to a startling halt at the sight of two KorTac grunts patrolling a narrow corridor. They’d been walking down the hall when they spotted them rounding the corner.

The poor guys never knew what hit them.

Roach dropped the first with a precise burst to the chest, while Soap's follow-up fire stitched a line of bullet holes across the second's chest. They fell in a heap, their weapons clattering on the metal floor in a crimson puddle. Neither soldier so much as laid a finger on their triggers.

"Clean," Roach confirmed, his voice a low growl. He took a moment, his eyes raking over the lifeless bodies of the soldiers before him.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t feel bad about taking their lives (he knew that if he and Soap had been a second or two slower, they’d be the ones on the ground and not the other way around.) And some selfish part of him, a part he didn't want to delve deeper into, felt satisfied at the knowledge one less KorTac operator walked the Earth.

“Let's get a move on.” He added and quickly searched the bodies, stripping them of magazines and grenades—every bit of ammunition counting.

It was safe to say any thought of consoling Soap quickly fled his mind after that. Right now wasn’t the time or place for a therapy session. They had a job to do.

And so, they pressed on, their movements methodical and silent. The factory echoed with the distant sounds of gunfire and shouts. Price, Gaz, Laswell and Ghost were clearly keeping the pressure on KorTac from above, buying Roach and Soap the time they needed to clear the lower levels.

It didn’t take long however for them to come across another patrol—this time, three heavily armed KorTac soldiers guarding a loading bay. Roach and Soap exchanged a quick glance. No time for stealth.

"Go loud!" Soap yelled, bursting into the bay, his M4A1 blazing. Roach followed close behind, unleashing a hail of fire. The KorTac soldiers scrambled for cover, their AKs barking defiance.

The fight was a chaotic ballet of lead and fury. Soap dived behind a stack of crates, peppering the enemy with controlled bursts. Roach, using his smaller frame to his advantage, weaved through the maze of old machinery, flanking the enemy position.

One KorTac soldier went down, clutching his throat, his eyes wide with shock as blood seeped through his fingers. Another dove behind a concrete pillar, returning fire with a vengeance. The air crackled with the hiss of passing bullets.

Roach risked a quick peek around a corner just in time to see an enemy grenade arc toward Soap. "Soap! Frag out!" he yelled, diving to tackle his partner.

The grenade detonated with a thunderous blast, sending shrapnel ripping through the air. Roach felt a searing pain in his leg as he covered Soap with his body. The explosion shook the entire bay, causing debris to rain down from the ceiling.

"Bloody hell! You alright, Roach?" Soap asked, scrambling to his feet, his face etched with concern. His eyes raked over every inch of the downed Brit, cataloging every detail he could. It was bad enough Roach had gotten shot earlier, but now this? At this point Soap was going to wrap him up in bubble wrap and ship him back to the base. That is, if Price didn’t do it first the moment he found out about this.

"Just a scratch," Roach lied, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg as he stood. He could feel blood seeping into his pants, but firmly kept his eyes away from his leg. If he saw how bad it was he’d surely double the pain he was feeling. "Let's finish this."

Soap hesitated a moment, clearly unconvinced, but backed down with a pointed look from Roach. The message was clear: 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

Soap sighed. “Aye, let's finish this.” He quickly turned, and with a quick nod to Roach, unleashed a devastating barrage of bullets, flushing the last KorTac soldier from cover. Without missing a beat Roach finished him off with a precise headshot.

Silence descended on the loading bay, broken only by the dripping of water and the faint groan of machinery.

"Clear," Soap announced, panting heavily. "Let's keep movin’. If they didn’t know our position before, they do now."

They pressed on, their pace quickened by the brief firefight. They cleared room after room, each one a mirror image of the last, a sterile, cold reminder of the industrial purpose of this place.

They found more grunts, disposed of them with ruthless efficiency, and gleaned what little intel they could from their fallen enemies. KorTac was spread out, searching for them, but their main objective remained the missiles.

Things carried on like that for a while until as Soap and Roach navigated a particularly narrow corridor they both froze, feeling their stomachs drop. The lights flickered and died, plunging the factory into absolute darkness. A collective eerie silence rippled through the air.

"𝘞𝘩𝘢’ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢’?" Ghost's voice cut through the static.

"𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤’𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳," Laswell replied, her voice calm and steady. "𝘌𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦."

“𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘯-𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨-𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤,” Ghost grumbled, his voice resonating through the comms.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵’ 𝘶𝘴.” Roach chimed in as he activated his night vision goggles. The world swam into focus, transformed into a ghostly green landscape. He could hear Soap fumbling for his own goggles and resisted the urge to smirk at the Scott’s struggling.

“𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵’ 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳.” Gaz's cheeky voice cut through the comm link.

Before Roach could reply with his own response—a brilliant comeback of: that's exactly why I’m worried—Laswell’s voice silenced him.

“𝘐’𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘎𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴.”

“𝘐—𝘶𝘩, 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘔𝘢’𝘢𝘮.”

“𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 ‘𝘔𝘢’𝘢𝘮’ 𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘰 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?”

“𝘐—”

“𝘓𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨.” Price, chuckling, cut Gaz off.

“𝘏𝘦𝘺! 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵!”

“𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦.” Laswell responded, completely ignoring Gaz. “𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦, 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴. 𝘐 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳.”

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰, 𝘒𝘢𝘵𝘦. 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦.”

“𝘐 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘵. 𝘔𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘦.”

And just as quickly as the line grew busy it went dead, all chatter seized. Roach sighed, already missing the noise. It was comforting hearing everyone's voice and knowing they were all right. Now he was stuck with only the reality of their situation to focus on.

He and Soap waited there for a couple more minutes, adjusting to the new environment before they started their pursuit once more.

They moved slowly, cautiously, feeling their way through the darkness. Roach’s eyes scanned their surroundings, alert to any sign of movement. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic creen of metal and the pounding of his own heart.

Suddenly, a faint metallic clang echoed through the darkness. Roach froze, his senses on high alert. The sound came from the far end of the corridor. "Someone’s down there," he whispered to Soap. "Let's go."

They moved silently, like shadows in the night, closing in on the source of the noise.

As they rounded a corner, the corridor opened into a large chamber, filled with towering metal beams that supported the weight of the factory above.

In the center of the room, a massive generator hummed steadily. And near one of the support beams, bathed in the faint glow of a headlamp, was Aksel. He was meticulously attaching a package to the beam.

“Bomb,” Soap breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "He's trying to bring the whole bloody place down. The bastard!"

Aksel, oblivious to their presence, continued his work. He moved without hesitation, seemingly confident with every motion of his hands. They had to act fast. If he succeeded, not only would they be buried alive, but the missiles would likely be destroyed as well.

Soap signaled Roach forward, then darted to the left, using a stack of crates for cover. Roach, despite his injury, moved with surprising speed, flanking Aksel from the right. They synchronized their movements, bursting from cover simultaneously.

"KorTac! Drop!" Soap yelled, firing a warning shot that ricocheted off the metal floor near Aksel's feet.

Aksel spun around, his eyes widening in surprise. He fumbled for his weapon, but Soap was already on him. He slammed into Aksel, knocking him off balance. They wrestled on the ground, a desperate struggle for control.

Roach, his shoulder screaming in protest, didn’t hesitate. He aimed his pistol and fired, the bullet finding its mark in Aksel's shoulder. Aksel yelled in pain, his grip loosening. Soap capitalized on the opportunity, pinning him to the ground and disarming him.

"Got him!" Soap shouted, panting for breath.

Roach quickly moved towards the support beam, examining the device Aksel had attached. "It's a shaped charge. Powerful enough to bring this entire section of the factory down." He turned to Soap. “Think you can disarm it?”

Soap scoffed. “O’course I can. Who do you think yer talking to?”

Roach rolled his eyes. “Well, then get to work.” He swapped places with Soap and began firmly restraining Aksel as Soap began to disarm the bomb, his fingers working quickly and efficiently.

"𝘊𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘙𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯’ 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱," Roach said into his comms. "𝘞𝘦’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘈𝘬𝘴𝘦𝘭. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯’ 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘴. 𝘞𝘦’𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.”

Price's voice crackled in their ears. "𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬. 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯’ 𝘢𝘯’ 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱. 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘳𝘦’ 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺.”

“𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘪𝘳.” Roach responded and then sighed, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. He looked at Soap, both catching their breaths from the adrenaline rush.

Soap smirked. “Nice moves back there considering the,” his eyes darted downwards at Roach’s leg. “Y’know.”

Roach chuckled. “Just a scratch, remember?" He asked with a cheeky grin.

Soap returned the grin, "Just a scratch."

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19 ᗰIᑎᑌTᗴՏ, 16 ՏᗴᑕOᑎᗪՏ Iᑎ,
ᘜᕼOՏT ᗩᑎᗪ ᑭᖇIᑕᗴ

The darkness of the factory was absolute, a heavy blanket that pressed in on Ghost, trapping him with no escape. It was an embrace drastically unwelcome—stirring memories that more resembled nightmares.

The dark wasn't just the absence of light to Ghost; it was a suffocating presence, a constant reminder of being buried alive, the metallic tang of blood and dirt thick in his nostrils, the desperate scrabble for freedom against impossible odds. He could almost feel the cold, damp earth clinging to him again, the weight of the coffin lid a promise of eternal silence.

That betrayal had broken him, left him beaten down and lost without anyone to go to—to 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵. And now, König's deceit threatened to shatter the fragile pieces that barely remained.

It was only thanks to the ability of his goggles to paint the skeletal remains of the factory in an eerie, ethereal light, that he managed to keep his memories at bay. The green light helped to soothe him—remind him that he wasn’t back there. That this was a different betrayal, one he still needed to get revenge on.

Beside him, Price moved with the quiet confidence of a predator. His presence, a solid, reassuring weight in the suffocating gloom, should have been a comfort.

Instead, it only served to fuel the simmering resentment that churned within Ghost. He knew 𝘸𝘩𝘺 Price was here, shadowing him, playing the part of the concerned shepherd. König’s betrayal had left a jagged, ugly wound, and Price, bless his paternalistic heart, clearly thought Ghost was about to unravel.

“Anythin’?” Price rumbled, his voice barely a whisper, a low vibration that seemed to resonate through the very metal of the factory.

Ghost swept his gaze across the labyrinthine network of catwalks and towering machinery, his breathing shallow and controlled. "Negative. Clear…too clear."

It wasn’t right.

He hated this. He hated the darkness, the silence, the feeling of being hunted in this decaying mausoleum. He hated the way the factory seemed to amplify the emotions he was trying so desperately to suppress—the raw, untamed rage that bubbled just beneath the surface.

A flicker of movement ahead. Two KorTac soldiers, their silhouettes stark against the weak spill of sunlight filtering through a broken window. They were scouting the area, their backs turned, oblivious to the danger that lurked in the shadows.

Ghost didn’t waste time. He didn’t even glance at Price for confirmation. The rage, a coiled serpent within him, struck with blinding speed. He moved like a wraith, a silent predator unleashed.

He slipped behind the first soldier, one hand clamping down hard over his mouth, cutting off any sound before it could escape. The other hand, quick and efficient, plunged his knife deep into the man’s kidney. The soldier spasmed, his muffled scream a pathetic whimper cut short as he crumpled to the ground, his body a lifeless weight.

The second soldier, alerted by the subtle disturbance, spun around, his eyes widening in a mix of surprise and dawning horror. But Ghost was already on him, a brutal right hook slamming into his jaw, sending him staggering backward.

He crashed onto the unforgiving metal grating of the catwalk, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. Before the soldier could recover, Ghost was on him, kneeling astride his chest, his forearm pressed against his throat. A swift, merciless twist, and the man’s body went limp. The crack echoed, a final, decisive punctuation mark.

Ghost stood over the fallen bodies, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the rage momentarily sated. But the satisfaction was fleeting. It wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough—not yet.

Price emerged from the darkness, his face grim, etched with a mixture of concern and disapproval. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes held a silent accusation that hung heavy between them: 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭, 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.

He was right.

Ghost bristled, clenching his jaw so tight his teeth ached. He wanted to snarl, to lash out, to tell Price to mind his own damn business. But he swallowed the retort, knowing it would only validate Price’s concerns.

He knew Price was right. He was letting his anger dictate his actions, blurring the line between soldier and… something else. But suppressing that rage was like trying to contain a wildfire with a teacup. König had lit the fuse, and Ghost felt himself burning from the inside out. He couldn’t let go, no matter how hard he tried. The betrayal was too deep, the pain too raw.

They continued their ascent, winding through the skeletal remains of the factory. The air grew colder, the silence heavier. They encountered more KorTac soldiers, each encounter a brutal, swift affair.

Ghost fought with a ferocity that bordered on recklessness, his movements a blur of lethal efficiency. Every takedown was a release, a momentary catharsis for the burning rage that consumed him. He felt alive, fueled by the adrenaline and the simmering hatred.

Price kept pace, his experience and unwavering resolve a constant presence. He didn't try to stop Ghost, didn't try to preach about control or discipline. He simply watched, a silent observer, his presence a constant reminder of the precarious line Ghost was treading. And that, more than anything, fueled the resentment that gnawed at him. He was a soldier, damn it. He didn't need a babysitter. He needed to hunt down König and make him pay. Make them all pay.

Suddenly, the screech of metal on metal echoed from above. Price grabbed Ghost's arm, pulling him into the shadow of a towering machine press. The sound repeated, closer this time, a rhythmic grating that sent shivers down Ghost’s spine.

"Rappelling," Ghost whispered, his head tilted towards the complex network of rafters and gantries high above. "Two of em’."

Before Price or Ghost could react, two figures dropped silently from the darkness, their weapons already leveled, their movements practiced and precise.

It was Soap and Roach, battered and bruised, covered in grime and sweat, but very much alive. Soap was grinning, a flicker of relief in his eyes. Roach, however, was visibly limping, clutching his leg, his face pale with pain.

"Bloody hell! Glad to see you two," Soap breathed, his voice laced with exhaustion and a palpable surge of relief. Adrenaline still coursed through him, masking the pain. Roach, however, could only manage a tight nod, his focus solely on keeping his weight off his injured leg.

"What's your status?" Price demanded, his voice sharp and urgent as he quickly assessed Roach's wound.

"Clear. Well, relatively. Roach took one in the leg a while ago. He'll live, but he isn't pretty. We cleared the lower levels without comin’ across any more bombs an’ were heading towards the last known location of the missiles like planned—thought we heard some activity." Soap gestured vaguely in the direction they had come from.

Price nodded grimly, his gaze hardening. "We'll stick together from now on. No point in splittin’ back up." He turned to Roach, his voice softening slightly. "Can you move?"

Roach gritted his teeth, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Let's go."

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27 ᗰIᑎᑌTᗴՏ, 48 ՏᗴᑕOᑎᗪՏ Iᑎ

The room last known to hold the missiles loomed ahead, a colossal cavern carved into the heart of the factory. Ghost adjusted his night vision, the green glow illuminating the crate maintaining the missiles. The silence was unsettling, a stark contrast to the chaotic firefights they'd navigated to get here.

"Something's off," Soap muttered, his gaze darting around the cavern. "Way too quiet."

Price nodded, his hand resting on his sidearm. "Agreed. Stay alert, everyone."

They advanced cautiously, weapons raised, scanning every shadow. The air crackled with tension, a palpable sense of impending danger.

Then, it hit. A deafening roar echoed through the bay as a figure dropped from the scaffolding overlooking the missiles, landing silently on the concrete floor.

Nikto.

His distinctive mask, illuminated by the green light, was a chilling sight. He lashed out with a combat knife, his movements fluid and deadly, narrowly missing Soap's throat.

That was the signal.

The ensuing chaos was instantaneous. Seemingly from nowhere, KorTac soldiers materialized, unleashing a hailstorm of assaults.

"Get down!" Price bellowed, shoving Soap out of the way from Nikto’s second attempt. Before he could react further, a hulking figure in skeleton wear was rushing past to meet Nikto head on.

Ghost.

𝘎𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵.

It all went to hell from there.

In a matter of seconds everyone was in a fight for their lives.

Soap, after being shoved out of the way, found himself quickly caught in another brawl as a figure leaped from behind a stack of containers, a glint of steel flashing in the dim light.

It was Hutch, his face contorted in a feral grin that seemed to stretch his features to the breaking point. The distorted expression, coupled with the unhinged look in his eyes, painted a picture of a man revelling in the chaos. And in his hand lay the combat knife he used to lunge at Soap with a speed that belied his bulky frame, the knife arcing toward the Scotsmans throat.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵? 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺, 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺. The thought, absurdly comical in the face of imminent danger, flashed through Soap’s mind even as adrenaline surged through his veins.

That said, Soap reacted instantly, driven by instinct honed through years of conflict. He twisted his body to avoid the deadly blow, the cold air whistling past his ear as the knife narrowly missed its mark.

He managed to deflect the blade with the back of his hand, the sharp steel slicing across his skin, drawing a thin line of crimson. A searing pain shot up his arm, but he ignored it, focusing solely on the threat before him.

Hutch was relentless, a whirlwind of aggression. His attacks came in a furious flurry, each stab delivered with savage intent. He fought with the desperation of a cornered animal, his movements betraying a brutal efficiency honed through countless skirmishes.

"Come on, tough guy!" Hutch snarled, his voice a guttural rasp. "Is that all you got? If so, it's a good thing KorTac is here to clean up this mess!"

Soap spat, the taste of blood and adrenaline bitter on his tongue. "KorTac ain't cleaning up nothin'. You lot started this mess!" He blocked another thrust, the force of the blow jarring his shoulder. He needed space, needed to break Hutch's momentum.

Of course, that was easier said than done.

He struggled to maintain his footing, desperately trying to fend off the onslaught of stabs from Hutch's knife. He parried, dodged, and weaved, the dance of survival playing out in frantic steps.

Each second it grew harder and harder to dodge. Soap knew he couldn't keep this up forever. Hutch was bigger, stronger, and clearly fueled by a manic energy that Soap found unsettling. He had to create an opening, any opening, to turn the tide. He needed to think.

He ducked low, narrowly avoiding another strike that would have taken his head off, and used Hutch's momentum against him. He shoved hard against Hutch's chest, sending him stumbling backward a step.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to buy him a precious fraction of a second. Soap used that micro-advantage to kick out, his boot connecting with Hutch’s knee.

Hutch roared in pain, a guttural sound that echoed through the warehouse. He faltered, his balance compromised. This was Soap’s chance.

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Meanwhile, across the room, Price found himself on the receiving end of Horangi's aggressive assault—the Korean a whirlwind of kicks and punches, his movements fluid and unpredictable. Every strike was delivered with precision and power, a testament to years of rigorous training.

Price, although experienced, was forced to focus every ounce of his skill just to stay alive. He backpedaled, absorbing blows to his forearms, the sting a sharp reminder to not underestimate his opponent. It was startling how far the younger generation had come since he was their age.

"You're getting slow, old man," Horangi taunted, his voice a low growl that resonated with menace. "The years are catching up to you. The battlefield is no place for relics."

Price grunted, parrying a kick aimed at his ribs. "Save the poetics! You don’t seem all that much younger than me. Besides, I have alot more years in me than you’d think." He knew he was on the defensive, but he also knew Horangi was expending a lot of energy.

𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, he told himself, was key.

And just as he’d thought, within a few moments he was proving himself right.

He managed to land a solid punch to Horangi's jaw, momentarily disrupting the South Korean’s rhythm. He smirked, feeling a small surge of pride.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴.

But the respite was fleeting. Horangi recovered quickly, his eyes burning with a cold fury. He pressed his attack, a relentless barrage designed to overwhelm Price's defenses.

The Captain, despite his age (which, let's be real, wasn’t 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 old), moved with surprising agility, weaving and dodging, turning defense into a counterattack whenever he saw an opening.

Then, disaster struck. Horangi, feigning a kick to the head, swept Price's legs out from under him. The Captain crashed to the concrete floor, his breath knocked from his lungs in a painful whoosh. The impact sent a jolt through his body, briefly blurring his vision. He gasped for air, struggling to regain his bearings.

Horangi loomed over him, a cold, almost remorseful look playing on his face, as if he didn’t take any pleasure in what he was about to do. He drew a pistol, the firearm reflecting the harsh light. "Goodbye, Captain," he spoke softly, his voice scarily devoid of emotion. "It's been...educational."

Price braced himself, knowing that he was at Horangi's mercy. He tightened his grip, preparing to fight to the very end. He had stared death in the face countless times, but this felt different, more personal.
But the blow never landed.

Two shots rang out, echoing through the bay like thunderclaps, momentarily freezing the world in place.

“Fuck!” Horangi staggered back, clutching his arm, a crimson stain blooming on his sleeve. His eyes widened with disbelief, then narrowed with furious rage as he looked towards the source of the disruption.

Gaz and Laswell stood in the doorway, weapons drawn. Gaz, ever ready to throw down, had his rifle trained on Horangi, ready to fire again and Laswell, face cold and deadly, stood beside him providing cover.

"Price!" Gaz yelled, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes of gunfire. "You a’right, Captain?"

Price, still winded, pushed himself up into a seated position, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "Just peachy," he grunted, glaring at Horangi. "Thanks for the assist."

Horangi, however, was far from defeated. Despite the obvious pain radiating from his injured arm, his expression hardened. He ripped a strip of cloth from his uniform and hastily tied it around the wound, his eyes burning with a cold fury.

He looked ready to pounce, to continue the fight despite the odds. The adrenaline coursing through him was clear, fueling his will to continue on.

But then, something changed. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. He seemed to pause as his eyes caught the watch on the arm he was bandaging.

His eyes darted around the warehouse, searching, analyzing. The bloodlust vanished, replaced by a chilling calm. And before anyone could react, he was gone. Turned and vanished back into the maze of crates, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

It was as if he had never been there at all.

“Wha’ the fuck was tha'?" Gaz asked, lowering his weapon slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "He just…ran? After all tha’?"

"I—" Price started, pushing himself up to a sitting position, his ribs aching. He didn't understand it either. What had spooked Horangi? He’d seemed ready to continue fighting. It wasn’t until—

"We've got company!" Laswell yelled, her voice sharp and urgent, snapping them back to reality. "He wasn't alone!"

Before they could delve into the mystery of Horangi’s sudden departure, a figure emerged on a gantry above. The unmistakable silhouette of Calisto, her weapon already leveled, confirmed Laswell's warning.

"Looks like the party's just gettin’ started," Gaz muttered, raising his M4A1 again.

And as if on cue, gunfire ripped through the factory, the sharp reports echoing off the metal walls. Laswell and Gaz found themselves in an immediate firefight, trading shots with Calisto. Both sides sought cover behind crates, bullets impacting with a deafening clang of metal and splintering wood.

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A little to the left, Roach and König were locked in a desperate struggle, a stark contrast of agility versus brute force.

Roach's left leg throbbed with each frantic step, a searing reminder of the bullet lodged deep within his calf. But adrenaline masked the pain, fueling his movements and allowing him to meet König's onslaught with surprising resilience.

He darted behind rows of metallic crates, their faded paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The containers offered fleeting moments of respite, forcing König to lumber after him, his heavy boots echoing ominously on the cracked concrete floor.

König was a force of nature, a mountain of muscle and fury barely contained within his tactical gear. Roach knew it’d take more than a few quick turns to shake the Austrian, but he wasn’t quite sure he knew exactly what to do in order to accomplish that either.

"König! What the hell are you doin’? Is this really what you want?!" Roach yelled, his voice strained, a mixture of pain and disbelief. He risked a quick glance back, seeing König’s masked face, an impassive void staring back at him. There was no flicker of remorse, no hint of the man he thought he knew. Only cold, unwavering purpose.

König didn't reply, his silence more terrifying than any shouted threat. He moved with a surprising speed for his size, each step deliberate, each movement radiating a predator's focus. He slammed a fist against the container Roach had just vacated, the metal resonating with a deafening clang.

Roach scrambled behind another container, his lungs burning. He needed to create distance, to find an opening, anything to turn the tide. He knew he couldn't win a straight fight. His only hope was to outmaneuver the behemoth, to exploit his size, to use the labyrinthine factory against him.

He spotted a narrow gap between two containers, barely wide enough for him to squeeze through. Risking everything, he bolted for it, the jagged edges of the metal scraping against his already battered gear. He heard König’s heavy breathing closing in, the relentless pursuit fueling his desperation.

He made it through the gap, bursting into a cavernous space filled with rusted machinery and tangled wires. A network of catwalks crisscrossed overhead, offering a potential escape route. He sprinted towards a rusted ladder leading to the nearest catwalk, ignoring the agonizing pain in his leg.

It wasn’t long, only a second or two really, before König emerged from the gap, his massive frame filling the opening. He paused, his gaze sweeping across the space, locking onto Roach, and then the hunt resumed. He began his advance, his footfalls shaking the ground.

He was like a bloodhound, silent, merciless, locked on to the prey that ran before him. He wasn’t the König who would shy away whenever he asked a question and someone hesitated to respond right away, the person who would become awkward and hesitant when invited to social gatherings, and he wasn’t the soldier who used to have their backs. He was a beast—a rampaging monster with one objective: to kill.

Roach couldn’t help but recall the König he used to be, however. The one who enjoyed a quiet evening with a book, the one who struggled with small talk, the one who felt a pang of guilt with every kill, even when justified.

It hurt.

It hurt so much to know that König was gone, buried beneath the burning need to fulfill a mission—a purpose. But that was the sad truth. That König was gone and now Roach faced this König.

This König who felt nothing but a cold, calculating hunger and wanted nothing more than to see him on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

Reaching the ladder, Roach began to climb, his wounded leg struggling to support his weight. He glanced down, seeing König’s void face staring up at him. It felt like there was no life behind those eyes.

It was strange.

𝘜𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨.

He’d grown so used to the timid Austrian who looked scary but held no real bite that he’d forgotten König was a known killer—someone who left trails of bodies in his wake. It almost made him burst out in hysterics.

What he wouldn’t give to go back to before all this happened. Go back to when König was an ally and not some hunting hound dead set on ripping him to shreds.

"Why, König? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 are you doin’ this? We were a team! Did it all mean nothin’!?" Roach cried out, his voice laced with a desperate plea for understanding.

It just didn’t make sense. He 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 König. This wasn’t the man he’d sparred with, shared quiet conversations with, games, and even fought beside. It couldn’t be.

König’s voice, a low, guttural rumble, finally broke the silence. "Orders are orders, Roach. Loyalty changes and so do people. You just weren’t paying attention."

The coldness in his tone sent a shiver down Roach’s spine. This wasn't about personal animosity, this was about duty, a twisted loyalty to KorTac that overrode everything else. It made him sick. To think, he was reduced to nothing more than an obstacle for König to defeat.

There really was no going back to before, was there?

Roach reached the catwalk and scrambled onto it, his hands slick with sweat. He took off running, the rusted metal groaning under his weight. He glanced back, seeing König starting to climb the ladder, his movements surprisingly agile for his size. The sight pushed him to move faster, his heart hammering at the possibilities that were entailed if König caught him.

He didn’t know what the Austrian was capable of anymore—how far König was willing to go.

The catwalk swayed precariously with each step, its rusted supports threatening to give way. Roach moved as quickly as he could, navigating the treacherous pathway. He spotted a series of pipes running along the ceiling, a potential escape route.

He leaped, grabbing onto the pipes, his wounded leg and shoulder screaming in protest. He began to haul himself along the pipes, his movements slow and labored. He glanced back, seeing König gaining ground, his relentless pursuit sending spikes of fear down his spine.

He needed to 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦.

The pipes were cold and slick with grime, offering little purchase. His grip weakened with each passing moment. He knew he couldn't keep this up for long.

Suddenly, a section of the pipe he was holding onto gave way, sending him plummeting towards the ground. He landed with a bone-jarring thud, the impact driving the pain in his leg to a searing crescendo.

He lay there gasping for breath, his vision blurred. He looked up, seeing König descending the ladder, his massive figure looming over him. There was no escape.
König approached slowly, purposefully, his face an emotionless mask hidden behind the hood. He drew his knife, the glint of steel reflecting the faint light filtering through the windows.

Roach tried to crawl away, but his wounded leg betrayed him. He was trapped, cornered, defeated. A wounded animal left to the mercy of a savage beast.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way, Roach," König said, his voice devoid of emotion.

He raised his knife.

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Back in the main fray, Ghost and Nikto circled each other, their movements a deadly dance. Nikto's knife barely shone in the green light, a blur of polished steel.

The air was a swirling storm of dust kicked up by their frantic movements, illuminated only by the intermittent flicker of green light being cast by their night vision.

Ghost parried each strike from Nikto with his own combat knife, the clang of metal echoing through the cavernous bay, a jarring counterpoint to the distant sounds of weapon fire and desperate shouts. He feinted left, then lunged right, attempting to disarm Nikto.

He knew the Russian was a master of close quarters combat, a ruthless and unpredictable opponent. Every move felt calculated, every breath measured. One slip up and it’d be over.

Nikto anticipated the move, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips beneath the mask as if he was enjoying this. He stepped back, using the momentum to unleash a flurry of kicks aimed at Ghost's knees and groin, each strike carrying the force of a sledgehammer.

A lesser opponent would have crumpled, but Ghost sidestepped the attacks, his anger fueling his reflexes, transforming simple evasion into a desperate, almost primal, dance.

However, evasion couldn’t last forever. In a motion to perry Nikto’s knife Ghost felt a stinging blow connect with his ribs, a reminder that even a glancing hit could be devastating. It felt like all the air was forced from his lungs, his body screaming in agony—agony he voiced as he roared, a guttural sound muffled by his mask, and pressed forward, refusing to yield ground.

He grabbed Nikto’s wrist, the tendons straining in his grip, attempting to twist the knife from the Russian’s hand. Nikto responded with a headbutt, connecting with Ghost's forehead with sickening force. Ghost staggered back, stars exploding behind his eyes, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

"You vight like a cornered animval," Nikto hissed, his voice distorted by the mask, "vut animvals die."

Ghost spat out blood, rearranging his mask, his eyes never leaving Nikto. "An’ you talk too much," he growled, his vision slowly clearing. He charged again, aiming a low blow at Nikto’s knee, forcing him to jump back, then followed with a brutal elbow to the ribs.

Nikto grunted, the sound lost in the heat of battle. He retaliated with a swift kick to Ghost's shin, the sharp pain momentarily crippling the Lieutenant. Ghost stumbled, his balance faltering and before he knew it Nikto was raining down a series of blows, each one landing with brutal efficiency. Ghost blocked most of them, but a few slipped through, bruising muscle and bone.

Nikto, noticing Ghost’s struggle, pressed his advantage, his knife a constant threat, weaving and darting like a viper. He landed a blow on Ghost's shoulder, not deep, but enough to draw blood and weaken his concentration.

Ghost felt the heat of the wound radiating through his tactical vest. He countered with a desperate elbow strike, catching Nikto on the side of the head. Nikto grunted, stumbling sideways, giving Ghost a precious moment to regain his footing.

The fight continued, even more brutal than before. Ghost and Nikto exchanged blows, each strike aimed to cripple, to incapacitate, to kill. They grappled, wrestled, and clawed, neither gaining a definitive advantage. Ghost managed to land a solid punch on Nikto's masked face, the impact reverberating through the thick material, but Nikto barely flinched. He retaliated with a knee to Ghost's gut, doubling him over, gasping for air.

Then, Nikto finally managed to sweep Ghost's legs out from under him. Ghost crashed to the ground, the impact jarring. Nikto loomed over him, his knife raised, the blade a promise of death. He had a clear opening, an opportunity to end the fight. Ghost braced for the killing blow, his muscles tensed, ready to fight to his last breath.

But the blow never came.

Nikto hesitated. A subtle shift occurred in his posture, almost imperceptible, a slight tightening of his shoulders, a flicker in his eyes. It was barely noticeable, but Ghost, trained to read the slightest change in body language, saw it. Nikto was receiving orders, or at least acknowledging a message, through his comms. His grip on the knife loosened slightly, and his gaze flickered towards the far end of the room.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the fight was over. Nikto lowered his knife, sheathed it with a snap, and turned, disappearing into the shadows without a word.

Ghost lay on the ground, gasping for breath, his body screaming in protest. Confusion warred with adrenaline. "What the hell…?" He muttered, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

Suddenly, a desperate shout pierced through the air. "Shite!"

It was Soap, and the urgency in his voice sent a jolt of adrenaline through Ghost. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain in his ribs and the stinging cuts on his body. He ran towards the sound of Soap's voice, weaving through the maze of machinery and debris. His only goal was to find Soap, no matter what. Nothing else mattered in that moment and nothing ever would until he found Soap.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long to find his target—spotting Soap locked in a desperate struggle with Hutch. The American was slowly overpowering Soap, his face a mask of savage glee. Hutch had Soap pinned against a rusted girder, one massive hand clamped over Soap’s mouth, the other fumbling for a combat knife strapped to his thigh.

Soap bucked and writhed, his boots scrabbling for purchase on the slick metal floor, unwilling to accept defeat. Each movement barely seemed to slow Hutch down, and just when all hope seemed lost, in some stroke of luck, Soap managed to land a brutal kick on Hutch’s ribs, the sickening crack ripping a roar of pain from Hutch's lips and momentarily loosening his grip.

Soap, seizing his chance, slammed his elbow back into Hutch’s face. He felt something break—a nose, perhaps—and Hutch stumbled back, momentarily disoriented. Soap, not willing to let this chance slip through his grip, brought his knee up again, aiming for Hutch’s groin.

Sadly, it seemed his streak of luck was over for Hutch anticipated the move. He grabbed Soap’s leg and twisted, sending Soap crashing to the ground with a loud bang.

The Scotsman wasn’t even granted a moment to catch his breath as Hutch landed on top of him, pinning him down again.

"You little bastard!" Hutch roared, his face contorted with rage and pain. He brought his fist down on Soap's face, a sickening thud that even sent stars exploding behind Ghost’s eyes, even though he was several yards away.

Still, in one last ditch effort Soap somehow managed to shove Hutch away, never surrendering for even a moment. His small victory was short lived, however, because as soon as he managed to get to his feet again Roze appeared out of nowhere, delivering a brutal kick that sent Soap sprawling.

It was that moment that seemed to snap Ghost out of his daze, his body finally registering he could move and not only watch as the person he loved was beaten to a bloody pulp.

"Johnny!" Ghost roared, a primal sound torn from the depths of his soul. He surged forward, ignoring the pain radiating through his body, his mind laser-focused on one thing: getting to Soap. But he was too far, too slow. He wouldn't reach Soap in time.

This was it.

This was the moment he lost everything. This was the day the universe decided to come and collect on the debts he owed—take a life for the hundreds Ghost had taken. A life that meant more to him than any object or person ever could.

Ghost's world narrowed, the sound of gunfire fading into a dull roar. He braced himself, ready to witness the unthinkable, the loss that would break him beyond repair.

Roze raised her weapon, ready to finish Soap off. But before she could pull the trigger, a figure emerged from the darkness, moving with impossible speed.

A single shot cracked through the air, sharper and more decisive than any Ghost had heard that day.

Roze staggered, her eyes widening in a mixture of shock and pain. A crimson bloom erupted on her chest, staining her dark clothing. She crumpled to the ground, her lifeless eyes staring up at the grimy ceiling.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Every sound, every detail, was etched into Ghost's memory. His senses sharpened, honed to a razor's edge as his focus zeroed in on the man responsible.

Standing over Roze's body was the last person he expected to see, their M4A1 still raised as if one bullet wasn’t enough to finish the job.

"König?"

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3 ᗰIᑎᑌTᗴՏ, 9 ՏᗴᑕOᑎᗪՏ ᗴᗩᖇᒪIᗴᖇ

The steel bit into his palm as König tightened his grip on the knife, the cold metal a stark contrast to the sweat slicking his fingers. He’d done far worse, but something about this felt…wrong.

Sickening.

Roach lay there, a broken doll amidst the grime, body bruised and struggling. He tried to crawl away, but his wounded leg betrayed him. He was trapped, cornered, defeated. A wounded animal left to the mercy of a savage beast. König saw the fear in his eyes, the desperate plea for a mercy he couldn’t grant. Or…wouldn’t.

He was about to end a life, a life he didn't necessarily want to end, but a life that had to be ended.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way, Roach," König heard himself say, his voice devoid of emotion. But the words felt hollow, rehearsed. They didn’t feel like his own.

He raised his knife, the point aimed at the man he once considered a friend’s throat. Just a quick slice, and it would be over. He just had to do it. Get it over with, quick and simple.

Suddenly, a desperate shout pierced through the cacophony of gunfire and chatter. "𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦!"

König’s head snapped up. He wasn't sure who shouted it, but the desperation in the voice cut through the fog in his mind. It was high pitched but definitely a man. It echoed with urgency. He shifted his eyes to where the sound originated. And that’s where he saw him.

Soap.

Locked in a brutal struggle with Hutch. The American was a mountain of muscle, slowly but surely overpowering the smaller Scotsman. Hutch had Soap pinned against a rusted girder, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other fumbling for a combat knife.

Soap bucked and writhed, his face slowly turning red. König could see the frantic energy of his movements, the desperate will to survive.

Then, Soap managed to land a brutal kick on Hutch’s ribs, creating a sickening crack. Soap slammed his elbow back into Hutch’s face, throwing him off. König saw Soap’s knee come up, aiming for the groin. But Hutch anticipated the move, twisting Soap’s leg and sending him crashing to the ground.

Hutch landed on top of him, shouting and cursing Soap’s name as he brought his fist down on Soap’s face, a sickening thud that echoed through the warehouse. König wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. He was frozen, a silent observer in a deadly play.

Somehow, Soap managed to shove Hutch away, but his victory was short-lived as Roze appeared, delivering a brutal kick that sent Soap sprawling once more.

For a split second, Soap was still. Then, a roar ripped through the air.

"𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣𝙣𝙮!" It was Ghost. A primal scream filled with pain and raw, unfiltered emotion. König watched as Ghost surged forward, his body a weapon fueled by pure desperation.

But he was too far. Too slow.

König saw Roze raise her weapon, the barrel pointed at Soap’s head.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵.

Time seemed to warp. König’s breath hitched in his throat. He saw Soap, battered and broken, but still defiant, still fighting.

Then, flashes.

Soap's smile, bright and disarming, the first time he'd shook König's hand, pulling him into the fold.

The way he laughed, loud and infectious, chasing away the darkness that clung to König.

The understanding in his eyes, a silent acceptance that transcended language.

The genuine warmth Soap emanated, something König hadn’t felt in years.

He remembered the easy moments between them, the way Soap made him feel seen, valued.

He remembered the way Soap’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his mohawk always seemed to defy gravity.

He remembered, even felt a phantom of the warmth that bloomed in his chest whenever Soap looked at him, really 𝘴𝘢𝘸 him, beneath the mask and the size.

He remembered the easy, disarming flirtation that had sparked something within him that he didn't know was there until he started getting these feelings.

He thought of all the things he wanted to say to Soap—all the things he would never be able to.

He remembered all the hurtful words, looks of anger and pure heartbreak aimed at him from eyes that once shone so brightly when looking at him, and all the things he would never be able to make right.

He’d tried to bury it, this…fondness. This feeling. He’d labelled it a weakness, a dangerous distraction. But now, witnessing the imminent threat to Soap’s life, the carefully constructed walls around his heart crumbled.

Soap, pinned and helpless, his vibrant life about to be extinguished.

𝘕𝘰.

The realization was a physical force, slamming into him with the force of a wrecking ball. He couldn’t let it happen. He couldn't let 𝘩𝘪𝘮 die.

Not like this.

König’s body moved before his mind could catch up. Deception, orders, duty—they all crumbled to dust in the face of one overwhelming imperative: 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱.

He’d been trained for this, programmed for lethal efficiency. But this wasn’t about orders or allegiance. This was…instinct. Raw, primal. This was about saving someone he had grown to love, even if he didn’t want to.

He didn't even realize he was moving until he was already there.

A single shot cracked through the air, sharper and more decisive than any König had ever heard before.

Roze staggered, her eyes widening in shock and agony. A crimson bloom erupted on her chest, staining her dark clothing. She crumpled to the ground, her lifeless eyes staring up at the grimy ceiling as her weapon clattered uselessly beside her.

König stood over her body, his M4A1 still raised, the echo of the gunshot ringing in his ears. He hadn't even registered drawing his weapon, aiming, firing. It had been pure instinct.

He felt a strange detachment, as if he were watching himself from outside his body. He had betrayed 141, betrayed Soap, and yet here he was, saving said man’s life. What did any of it mean anymore?

"König?"

The voice was a strangled whisper.

𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵.

König turned, his face hidden behind the hood. He saw the disbelief, the confusion, the flicker of…something else…in Ghost’s eyes. He knew he had a lot of explaining to do. A lot he could never explain. But before anyone could speak, a deafening roar shook the warehouse. The ground trembled, and dust rained down from the ceiling.

An explosion.

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The tremors started small, a low rumble felt more than heard. Then, they escalated into violent shudders that rattled the corroded metal skeleton of the factory.

Aksel, the son of a bitch, had rigged the whole place to blow. He must’ve broke free and set more bombs. That, or he’d hid the others more thourghly then the one Soap and Roach had stopped him from setting up. Either way, there was no mistaking that he was responsible.

Laswell’s intel, cold and clinical on the hard drive just minutes ago, suddenly felt deeply personal. Each profile, each name, each face of KorTac had morphed from a file into a reality.

The explosions started. Not just a bang, but a ripping, tearing, earth-shattering roar that echoed through the cavernous space. Metal screamed, concrete groaned, and the air filled with choking dust and the acrid smell of burning chemicals.

"𝘔𝘖𝘝𝘌! 𝘕𝘖𝘞!" Price bellowed, his voice barely audible through the comms above the din.

Soap barely registered it as he stared, completely dumbfounded, up at König. He couldn't reconcile the man who had betrayed them only less than a half hour ago with the man who had just brutally executed Roze to 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

He just couldn’t 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥.

König was supposed to be a traitor—a threat. Someone who had never cared about him, Ghost or anyone on T.F. 141. He was supposed to have always been a wolf in sheep's clothing waiting to shed its skin and reveal its teeth.

So 𝘸𝘩𝘺?

𝘞𝘩𝘺 was König 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

Then, out of nowhere, a figure emerged from the shadows, cutting of Soap’s internal spirial. Hutch, his face contorted with rage, charged at König.

"You traitorous bastard!" Hutch roared, the words laced with venom as he pounced on König.

König, momentarily stunned, hesitated to react. And that was all Hutch needed, moving with a ferocity Soap had never seen.

Hutch was fast, agile, a whirlwind of furious punches and kicks. He landed several blows to König's head and torso, each strike born of years of training and personal animosity.

But König was a tank. He absorbed Hutch’s initial flurry of blows, the impacts barely registering on his massive frame. He raised his arms, deflecting the incoming attacks, his own movements deliberately slow, almost ponderous.

Then, with a guttural roar, he retaliated. A brutal backhand, delivered with the full force of his considerable weight, connected with Hutch's jaw, sending him staggering. Hutch flew back, crashing into a stack of crates that splintered under the impact.

Hutch, though clearly hurt, was far from defeated. He spat out a mouthful of blood, his eyes burning with unwavering hatred. He lunged again, this time aiming for König's legs, trying to bring the behemoth down.

König anticipated the move, sidestepping with surprising agility. He grabbed Hutch by the back of his vest, hoisting him into the air.

They locked in a brutal grapple, a desperate struggle for dominance. Hutch clawed at König's helmet, trying to rip it off, while König tried to crush him in a bear hug. The air filled with grunts of exertion and the scraping of metal on metal.

Then, König, using his superior strength, slowly began to squeeze the air out of Hutch's lungs. "Soap! Get out of here!" König roared, his voice strained with effort. “Bitte, ich kann dich nicht verlieren!”^[41]

Soap hesitated. Despite everything, all the pain and suffering, he couldn’t bring it upon himself to leave König to die. Not like this. He wouldn’t.

"NOW!" König bellowed, his voice echoing through the air, cutting through the endless sounds of the factory caving around them.

“There’s—”

“Don't be a fool, MacTavish!" Ghost’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and unyielding. He grabbed Soap by the arm, his grip like iron. "He's made his choice. We ave’ to go!"

Soap struggled, desperate to stay, but Ghost was relentless, dragging him towards the exit. The image of König, lifeless and buried under rubble, was seared into his mind.

"I'm not leavin’ im’!" Soap yelled, tears stinging his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Not 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

Ghost just growled, "He knows what he's doin’. Gotta move! You ain’t helpin’ anyone by dyin’ ere’ too!" He tightened his grip, his face grim. Then, in a quiter voice, almost like he didn’t want to admit it was happening, "He bought us time. Don' waste it."

Soap fought against Ghost for another moment, his muscles screaming in protest. He knew Ghost was right. Staying would only doom them all. And so, with a strangled sob, knowing he was delaying their escape, he relented. He stumbled after Ghost, his eyes fixed on König, who was now slamming Hutch against a metal support beam—the beam buckling and groaning under the strain.

As they reached the relative safety of the factory's perimeter, another explosion ripped through the heart of the building. The supports finally gave way. It seemed to heave, a monstrous beast shaking off its skin, before a deafening roar ripped through the air as the entire structure groaned, shuddered, then collapsed in on itself in a cataclysmic symphony of destruction. A enormous fireball erupted, engulfing the factory in a blinding inferno. The ground shook, sending a shockwave that knocked Soap and Ghost off their feet.

Burning debris rained down around them, the sky a swirling vortex of fire and smoke. The heat was intense, searing their skin. Soap scrambled to his feet, his ears ringing, his eyes wide with horror, burning with unshed tears as he stared at the collapsing inferno.

"König!" he screamed, his voice cracking, the sound swallowed by the roar of the flames. He lunged forward, towards the inferno, driven by a desperate need to do something, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Ghost tackled him, pinning him to the ground. "It's no use, Johnny! He's gone!"

There was no answer to his cry. Only the agonizing crackle of burning metal, the hiss of flames consuming everything in their path, and the thick, suffocating smoke that choked the air.

König was gone.

Chapter Text

The silence in the aftermath was a different kind of deafening than the explosions had been. A hollow, echoing void where the roar of the inferno used to be.

Soap stared, unseeing, at the smoldering remains of the factory. Ghost’s grip was a vice on his arm, anchoring him to reality, but his mind was a million miles away, replaying the scene over and over—König’s demand to run, his sacrifice, the devastating collapse.

Soap was trapped in a loop, a broken record skipping on the same agonizing groove. König’s massive frame, silhouetted against the flames, his voice a guttural bellow of warning, the ground trembling as the structure gave way. Then, darkness. And then, the acrid taste of smoke, the ringing in his ears, and the crushing weight of guilt.

He barely registered Ghost's presence beside him, the subtle pressure of his gloved hand, the low rumble of his voice speaking reassurances he couldn’t decipher. He didn't feel the grit of the pulverized concrete beneath his boots, nor the stinging of the wind whipping through what was left of the industrial complex.

Soap could barely even register the sting of smoke in his lungs, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth—likely a busted lip, or a bitten tongue. He couldn't tell. Sensation felt muffled, distant. The world around him had become a blurry watercolor, lacking definition and substance. He felt like a detached observer watching his own life unfold from a distance.

He was an empty vessel, adrift in a sea of regret.

He felt Roach gently touch his shoulder at one point, heard the muffled sound of his voice along with Gaz’s, but the words were garbled, meaningless static.

He saw Laswell approach, her eyes searching his. She opened her mouth to speak, and for a fleeting moment, Soap thought he could hear her, but then the roar of the collapsing factory surged back into his mind, drowning out everything else.

They were all there, the remnants of 141, huddled together amidst the devastation. Ghost, Laswell, Roach, Price, and Gaz. They were waiting for the extraction chopper alongside him, for the medics, for the inevitable debrief—to 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 him. But none of it seemed to matter, the only thing Soap could focus on was König—the lack of his presence.

The air hung thick with tension, a silent accusation aimed at the betrayers—at 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤. There was no sign of them, no one to take his anger out on. Just the hollow victory of having survived, bought with König’s life. His love.

“Soap,” Price’s voice cut through the haze. It was gruff, laced with concern, but it felt distant, muffled. “Report. Wha’ happened in there? You screamed König’s name.”

Soap’s jaw worked, his throat constricting. He tried to form the words, to explain the impossible choice König had made, the sheer, selfless act of heroism. But the sounds wouldn't come. His vocal cords seemed paralyzed, his tongue thick and unresponsive. He could only stare blankly at Price, a hollow husk devoid of answers.

Laswell stepped forward, her face etched with worry. “Johnny, are you alright? Are you injured?”

He didn't respond. He didn't even blink. His eyes remained fixed on a point somewhere beyond the ruins, his mind lost in the inferno.

A long, heavy silence settled over them. The unspoken need for information hung in the air, thick and suffocating, yet no one was brave enough to push harder.

Ghost tightened his grip on Soap's arm. He could feel the tremors that wracked Soap's body, the barely controlled shaking that betrayed the trauma Soap was enduring. He knew Soap wouldn't—𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵—speak. The mission had taken something from him, something far more vital than a wound he could bandage.

“König sacrificed himself to save Soap an’ I,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, his masked face an impenetrable shield.

The words hung in the air, stark and brutal in their simplicity. They offered no explanation, no comfort, no details of the terrifying ordeal they had just endured. Only pure fact. A report of the unspeakable left to its very foundation, lacking characteristic or true thought.

“Sacrificed himself? How? Wha’ exactly happened, Ghost?” Price pressed, his gaze sharp and unwavering. His body instantly tensed, shoulders hunching and back straightening to full height.

Ghost remained silent, his body rigid. He stared straight ahead, seemingly deaf to Price's questioning. He had offered the bare minimum, the cold, hard facts and he planned to keep it at that.

Price stepped forward, his hand resting on Ghost's shoulder. "Simon, we need to know wha’ exactly happened."

Ghost shrugged off Price's hand, his silence deepening. He had shut down, retreated behind the mask, becoming a stoic, unreadable soldier once more.

It wasn’t unusual for him to act like this, to become even further withdrawn on a particularly rough mission, but this time, it felt different. It felt… broken. He normally would have responded when it concerned mission details, no matter how short and to the point, but this time, he stayed silent. It felt like he was a literal Ghost, present and yet just out of reach.

It wasn’t right.

The sound of the approaching chopper finally broke the tension. It was a welcome intrusion, a chance to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the ruined factory and the haunting memories it held.

Soap, however, barely registered the approaching aircraft. He felt Ghost guide him forward, felt the rough canvas of the chopper seat beneath him, but his mind remained trapped in the inferno.

The faces of his comrades swam into his periphery, concerned and weary. He felt Gaz squeeze his shoulder, a silent gesture of support, but it was like feeling it through a thick woolen blanket. He was insulated, cut off from the world by a wall of shock.

The helicopter lifted off, tilting precariously as it banked away from the smoldering remains of the factory. Soap stared blankly out the window, the landscape blurring into an indistinguishable mess of green and brown. The world moved around him, but he remained still, a statue carved from grief and disbelief.

He was aware of the presence of his team, their quiet conversations, the tense atmosphere that permeated the aircraft, but it was all filtered through a haze of numbness.

He knew he should try to smile, to make a joke, to shake off this cold dread encompassing his entire body but he couldn’t find the energy. He wanted to pretend everything was fine. He really did. But everything wasn’t fine. König was gone. And he wasn’t coming back.

The worst part? The part that really tore Soap to shreds from the inside out? König died thinking that he hated him. König 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 himself for someone he thought hated him. It wasn’t right. Nothing was right anymore. And he couldn’t fix it.

Centuries seemed to pass before finally, the helicopter began its descent, the landscape slowly resolving into the familiar outlines of their base. Soap felt the bump of the landing gear hitting the tarmac, the sudden stillness after the chaotic vibration of the flight.

Ghost gently nudged him, guiding him out of the helicopter. Soap stumbled slightly, nearly falling. Ghost, without a word, tightened his grip, preventing the fall. The touch, the firm hand, was a small anchor in the swirling chaos of his mind. It was, perhaps, the only thing Soap registered clearly at all. He just hoped Ghost could continue to keep him tethered to reality, because he feared he was already lost.

They walked in silence across the tarmac, the sounds of the bustling base a distant hum. His eyes were fixed on the ground as he moved. He was vaguely aware of the curious glances of the other soldiers, the hushed whispers that followed them but he didn’t bother to aknowledge them let alone stop them. There was no point.

Somehow they reached the debriefing room, a sterile, brightly lit space that felt alien and unwelcome. Soap barely registered the room, the table, the chairs. All of it seemed so insignificant. And like everything else since König’s death, he was led to a seat where he sat down heavily, his body slumping forward.

He was home, but he wasn't. He was surrounded by his team, his family, but he was utterly alone. The fire may have been extinguished, but the embers of König's sacrifice continued to burn within him, threatening to consume him entirely.

The air in the debriefing room was thick with unspoken words and suffocating regret as everyone slowly fluttered in. Soap remained slumped in his chair, a silent, grief-stricken husk throughout the entire ordeal.

Laswell, after several cautious attempts to elicit a response from him, exchanged a glance with Price. The Captain’s face was a roadmap of concern and a deepening weariness. Ghost, still a statue of stone beside Soap, was the only one who seemed to possess any semblance of composure, yet even his stillness felt charged with an uncharacteristic tension.

Eventually the debriefing concluded with more questions than answers. Ghost’s terse, unembellished report of König’s sacrifice, followed by his impenetrable silence, left an aching void. No one pushed. The weight of Soap’s brokenness was too heavy for anyone to risk shattering him further, and Ghost’s rare, complete withdrawal was a clear sign that any attempt to pry would be met with an unyielding wall.

Days bled into weeks, each one a relentless tide of heavy grief that settled over the base like a shroud. The usual camaraderie of 141 was muted, replaced by a quiet vigilance around Soap. He moved through the base like a phantom, his eyes hollow, his movements sluggish.

He ate little, spoke less, and slept fitfully, if at all. His nightmares, when they came, were silent screams that only Ghost seemed to hear, as he was the one who often awoke to find their shared room empty and Soap huddled in a common room in the dead of night, staring at nothing.

For Soap, the world had lost its color. The simplest things triggered a fresh wave of pain.

He'd find himself staring at the mess hall table, remembering König's hulking frame taking up twice the space of anyone else. The sight of a mountainside shrouded in mist—König had loved the mountains, had spoken of them with a surprising tenderness. Even the sight of a book felt like a betrayal, a mocking reminder of how König would sit down for hours and read with a contentness that was both charming and slightly amusing.

He tried to throw himself into his work, burying himself in mission briefings and tactical simulations, but it was no use. Everything felt… muted. Hollow. His usual cheerful banter was gone, replaced by a quiet, almost somber demeanor that worried Gaz and Roach to no end.

"C'mon, Soap," Gaz would say, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's hit the range, get some frustration out."

"Aye, maybe later, Gaz," Soap would reply, his eyes distant. The spark, the infectious energy that defined him, was gone, extinguished by the inferno that had consumed König.

Roach tried a different approach, dragging him to the mess hall for a game of cards. But even the familiar comfort of competition couldn't penetrate the fog of grief that had enveloped him. He'd fold hand after hand, his mind miles away, the images of the factory collapsing replaying on a loop in his head.

Soap found himself wandering, lost in thought, through the base more often then not. He'd stop every once in a while and stare. Stare at where König had stood, what he touched. If he closed his eyes he could see him. He could hear him.

It was never ending.

Ghost, too, was a sharper, more withdrawn version of himself. His mask seemed to cling even tighter, his already minimal interactions reduced to curt nods and monosyllabic grunts. He kept a shadow-like watch over Soap, a silent, unyielding presence that was both a comfort and a stark reminder of their shared trauma.

His own grief was a hidden wound, leaking out only in the stiff set of his shoulders, the way he flinched at sudden, loud noises, or the distant, haunted look in his eyes when he thought no one was watching.

He would often find himself staring blankly at the wall, replaying the moment König saved them, the roar of the collapse, the sickening thud of the falling debris, the chilling 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 that followed. He had seen too many good men die, but this—this felt different. It felt like a failure, a preventable loss.

He’d promised himself the day König arrived at 141 he wouldn’t let any of the men on his team die. That he’d 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 them. Keep them safe. He thought at the time that meant keeping König on a tight leash, that the unwelcomed Austrian was the threat, but now it was clear he was too naive. That day König became a part of his team, his family, the very people he promised to protect. He was just too blind to see it.

This entire time he was fighting König when he should’ve been protecting him. He failed—helped 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 König. And there was nothing he could do to change that. It go fucking figures. He was always too late.

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Though the entire base seemed to be overcome with the grief shared between Ghost and Soap they weren't the only ones who suffered.

Price, for example, carried the weight of command, but also the crushing burden of a decision that now felt terribly wrong. He watched Soap waste away, a hollow echo of the vibrant, quick-witted sergeant he knew. His own regret was a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d signed off on König’s transfer back to KorTac, giving in to the protocols, believing it was the right, logistical move.

Now, seeing the profound damage it had wrought, not just on Soap, but on the very fabric of his team, he questioned everything. He spent hours in his office late at night, staring at maps, at mission reports, but his mind always drifted back to the image of König, the towering, silent operator who’d shown a flicker of humanity, a potential for something more, before being dragged back into the machine that had created him.

He remembered König’s quiet competence, the way he’d followed orders without question, the strange, almost childlike vulnerability that occasionally peeked through the ‘loose cannon’ his file described. The monster KorTac had made him. He’d seemed like such a sweet lad. Was more than qualified to be a part of 141. If only…

Gaz and Roach felt it too, the palpable absence, the shift in their team’s dynamic. They saw Soap’s pain, Ghost’s deepening silence, and Price’s heavy burden.

They tried to draw Soap out, offering half-hearted jokes or attempts at conversation. They’d leave energy drinks by his bunk, or simply sit in the common room when Soap was there, a silent statement of solidarity.

Their grief was raw, less shrouded than Ghost’s or Price’s. Both moved with a subdued quietness that wasn't characteristic of them. Both worked tiresly to fix the cracks forming between everyone. And both could be seen with bags under their eyes from sleepless nights.

It was obvious they missed the familiar dynamic of the team, the easy peace that had been shattered. They felt the gaping hole left in the team by König and clearly wanted nothing more than to go back in time to when everything was right in the world. But more importantly they also felt the guilt associated with that absence. Not just from Soap, Ghost, and Price but their own as well.

They’d seen König in action before, his brutal efficiency, but also the flicker of something more, something human beneath the KorTac training. But that brutalness clouded their judgment once it was turned on them. Despite all the moments shared with König they allowed the sting of yet another betrayal to blind them. Allowed themselves to only see the surface details and not the more hidden truths.

Allowed themselves to forget the man beneath the mask—the hesitant giant, the surprisingly gentle and caring person hidden underneath a mountain of sharp edges. They forgot König wasn’t just another mindless soldier, that despite holding a deadly strike on the field that could kill instantly he held a gentle touch he’d once used to comfort and protect them.

They remembered how he’d integrated, however briefly and awkwardly, into their circle, how he’d learned their rythem, the quiet moments in the mess hall. They grieved for the loss of a teammate, a friend, a brother. They felt the sting of survivor’s guilt, the chilling thought: 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮? And then, the deeper ache: 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦’𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳? 𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘭? 𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘳?

One evening, into the tail end of the first month after the mission, the dam finally broke. It could’ve been any one of them. Gaz, Roach, Ghost even Price. But in the end it was the one most haunted by König’s death.

Soap was in the common room late one night having awoken from a nightmare, staring blankly at a muted television screen. Price walked in, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand, his face lined with exhaustion.

This wasn’t the first time he’d run into Soap all alone like this. Almost like clockwork every night Price would see Soap sitting there, looking lifeless. He hated it. Despised it even.

He had figured Soap just needed space. That he only needed time to sort everything out but it seemed that wasn’t the case. It was almost a full month since the incident and yet no sign of improvement was being shown.

He had to do something before it was too late. He needed to get back the full of life and energy sergeant he once knew no matter what. And so, he sat opposite Soap, the silence stretching between them, thick and suffocating before he took a leap of faith.

"Johnny," Price began, his voice low, "you need to talk about it. We all do. You can’t keep going like this."

Soap didn't move, didn't blink. He was a statue. His eyes, usually so bright, were dull and distant, reflecting the muted colors flickering across the screen. His hands, resting on his knees, were clenched into white-knuckled fists, though he seemed unaware of the tension in his own body. Every muscle, every fiber of him, screamed a silent refusal to engage.

Price watched him, his own gaze heavy with a mixture of concern and a familiar, weary understanding. He’d seen this before, the way a good man could fracture under the weight of guilt, even when there was none to bear. After all, if anyone was to blame it was him.

He took a slow sip of his coffee, letting the warmth spread through him, anchoring him in the present.

"It wasn't your fault, son," Price pressed, trying to offer comfort, though his own voice wavered slightly. "König made a choice. He saved you."

The words, meant to soothe, were a match to tinder. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Soap’s head turned. His eyes, though still distant, held a spark, a dangerous, burning ember.

“A choice?” Soap’s voice was a raw, rasping whisper, unused for too long. “A 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦? That’s what ye call it, Price?” Soap laughed, a harsh, broken sound devoid of humor. “He was a bloody weapon, a monster built by KorTac, but he was human!” His voice gained momentum, rising in volume, cracking with every word.

“He saved my life, damn you! He saved us! An’ you… you sent him back!” Soap’s hands balled into fists, trembling. “You let them ave’ him! You let them break him down into somethin’ he wasn’t! He was a good man, under all tha’! He was! An’ he proved it! He proved it by dyin’ for me!”

Price flinched, the mug nearly slipping from his grasp. “Soap, lad, it wasn’t tha’ simple. KorTac had a claim, a contract—”

“A contract?!” Soap lurched forward, rising from his seat, his voice now a desperate, guttural cry. “To turn a man into a bloody machine? To strip him of everything human? He was broken, aye, but he was ere’! With us! We could ave’ helped him! He died savin’ us!” Soap roared, sweeping an arm out, as if gesturing to the entire ruined world around him.

“Me! Ghost! He 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥! He still had somethin’ good left in him! Maybe if you hadn't let him go, if you hadn't sent him back to be twisted an’ broken by KorTac, he'd still be 𝘦𝘳𝘦’!” Soap choked out, tears finally streaming down his face. “He wouldn't be a pile of dust in a factory! He was more than a monster, Price! He was! An’ you let him go! You signed his death warrant!”

He pointed a shaking finger at Price, his eyes wild with devastation. “He didn’t make a choice, Price. He was forced! Forced by what they—𝘺𝘰𝘶 did to him! Forced by the bloody factory falling, forced by your decision! You chose to let them make him a monster again! He was 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴! He could ave’ been 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴!"

He crumpled then, his legs giving out, sinking to his knees on the harsh floor, his hands clawing at his shirt as if trying to rip out the heart that felt too heavy in his chest. "He saved me… he saved 𝘮𝘦… an’ I couldn't save him… couldn’t bring him home…"

The door creaked open. Ghost stood there, drawn by the rising crescendo of Soap’s anguish. His masked gaze swept from Soap’s shattered form to Price’s stricken face. Behind him, Gaz and Roach appeared, their faces grim, their own unspoken regrets hanging heavy in the air.

Without a word, in one quick motion, Ghost crossed the room, dropping to his knees beside Soap, his gloved hand resting firmly on Soap’s shoulder, then pulling him into a rough, uncharacteristic embrace. Soap buried his face in Ghost’s chest, his body wracked with shuddering sobs, the sound ripped from the deepest part of his soul.

Ghost held him, his own breathing ragged, his mask pressed against Soap’s head. For the first time, Ghost allowed the cracks to show, his posture slumped, the unyielding strength momentarily giving way to shared sorrow.

Price stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. He looked at Soap, then at Ghost, then at the others. The accusation in Soap’s words, raw and unpolished, resonated with the silent guilt gnawing at them all. He had always been unmovable—he had to be—but now, facing the raw grief of his sergeant, the bitter truth in his words, Price looked every one of his years.

“He saved you, Johnny,” Price agreed, his voice quiet, heavy with an admission of fault. “He showed us all who he really was. An’... I regret it. Every damn day. I regret not seein’ it sooner. Not fighting harder. He was a good man, buried under a lot of pain. We could ave’… 𝘐 should ave’ done more.”

His gaze lingered on Soap, then shifted, meeting Ghost’s eyes. They looked dead and broken. Mirroring emotions usually masked. The guilt washed over Price, cold and sharp. He had made a tactical decision he'd told himself. König was KorTac's.

But he couldn’t deny the truth. He knew that Soap had taken an interest in König. Saw the way Soap’s natural charm began to work. Even witnessed Ghost begin to warm up to König. It was risky enough allowing those two to date but possibly adding another soldier to the mix, one from another faction—a highly questionable method-based faction? That was far too risky.

König was a good soldier and he fit with 141 splendidly. Not to mention he seemed like a decent lad, but there was too much on the line to allow him to stay. Which is why Price had chosen the ‘rational path’, the path of least resistance, the path that meant not fighting for a man who was technically the enemy when asked to send him back. And now, that choice had cost Soap and Ghost more than just a comrade; it had cost them something profoundly personal, something akin to a soulmate.

Price swallowed heavily, forcing back the guilt. He took a deep breath. "He deserved better. He deserved a place ere’. There’s no denyin’ tha’. But even I know he wouldn't want you carrying this," Price urged, his voice firm but laced with deep empathy. "He wouldn't want you to drown in it. You think he'd want to see you like this? A shadow of yourself?"

Ghost, holding Soap, felt the tremor in his own hands. Price was taking all the blame but the truth was undeniable: it wasn’t entirely Price’s fault. He hadn’t fought for König either. Instead he tossed aside König without a second thought. He let his anger and hurt blind him.

He couldn’t help but wonder had he been too cold? Too resigned to the man’s fate as an enemy? He had accepted the transfer without question, without arguing for the opportunity to explore König’s potential for redemption. He had just watched, and allowed.

Then the betrayal happened and he didn’t even question it. Just accepted.

The mask felt heavier than usual, a suffocating weight of unexpressed regret. He should’ve done more—𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 more.

The room was silent save for Soap’s ragged breathing, his sobs slowly subsiding into dry, aching gasps. The embers of König's sacrifice continued to burn within them all, a searing indictment of what was lost, what could have been.

The raw, guttural cry that had escaped Soap’s throat lingered in the air of the common room, a phantom echo of despair. Ghost held him, a silent, unyielding pillar against the storm of Soap’s grief.

Gaz and Roach stood by, helpless, bearing witness to the unraveling of their friend, their team. The dam had broken, but the floodwaters of sorrow continued to rise and there was nothing they could do.

Days bled into weeks, the base remaining shrouded in a dense, suffocating fog. Soap moved like a zombie, his eyes hollow, his movements sluggish and devoid of their usual spring. Sleep still offered no solace, only a continuous, relentless parade of nightmares, each one a vivid, cruel replay of the factory collapsing, of König’s final, self-sacrificing act.

He continued to barely eat, barely speak, clinging to Ghost like a lifeline, the only presence that offered any semblance of comfort in his internal maelstrom. Ghost, in turn, became a shadow of Soap’s shadow, always at his side, a silent barrier against the world and Soap’s own self-destruction. He often sat in Soap’s and his shared room while Soap stared at the wall, or followed him to the mess hall, ensuring he at least picked at his food.

Price, for his part, tried to help. He’d ordered mandatory therapy sessions, which Soap attended with a vacant stare, offering nothing more than curt answers. Ghost, ever the silent supporter, simply sat in the waiting room outside, a silent promise of presence.

When therapy proved ineffective Price tried to foster a sense of normalcy. He pushed for training exercises, for tactical reviews, anything to get their minds back on the mission. He watched Soap with a hawk’s eye, the guilt a persistent ache in his chest.

He knew, deep down, that pushing them back into the fray too soon was a risk, but inactivity was proving equally corrosive. They were soldiers; soldiers fought. Routine, however painful, might be the only way forward.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Alright, listen up,” Price announced two weeks later, the crispness of his voice belying the tension in the briefing room. Soap sat beside Ghost, picking idly at a loose thread on his uniform, his gaze distant. Ghost’s masked eyes were fixed on Price, a silent warning in their depths. Gaz and Roach exchanged uneasy glances. The tension was suffocating.

“Intel suggests a significant resurgence of a splinter cell, led by a high-value target known as Stryker,” Price began, tapping a key on the computer, casting a detailed schematic of an abandoned complex on the outskirts of Pripyat.

“He’s been linked to several recent destabilization efforts, including a coordinated attack on a supply convoy last week. Our objective: Infiltrate the complex, capture Stryker, an’ neutralize his key assets. Minimal collateral damage, maximum efficiency.”

He paused, letting the information sink in. “It’s a tight operation. High risk, high reward. Close-quarters, urban combat. Expect heavy resistance.” Price’s gaze swept over them, lingering on Soap. “Any questions?”

Soap didn’t even look up. Ghost shifted subtly, a silent anchor.

“Sir,” Gaz ventured, his voice a little strained, “is this… wise, right now? With everythin’…?”

Price’s jaw tightened. “The world doesn’t stop, Gaz. We’re soldiers. This is wha’ we do. An’ we’re the best at it.” His eyes met Ghost’s. “We’ll operate as a single unit. Entry will be via rooftop infiltration, rappelling into the complex," Price continued, his voice steady despite the apprehension coiling in his gut. He tried to meet Soap's eyes, but Soap flinched away, turning his head slightly.

"Gaz, you an’ Roach will secure the perimeter before regrouping to flank Soap an’ Ghost. Ghost, Soap, you’re the entry team. Your primary objective: secure the target. Secondary: intel extraction. I’ll run overwatch and provide intel support. Stick to the plan. Watch each other’s backs. Any other questions?”

Silence. Price waited, then sighed. "A’right. Wheels up in two hours. Get your gear ready."

The tension in the air was so thick, Price could almost taste it. He watched Soap rise mechanically, Ghost instantly mirroring him. As the team moved to kit up, Price caught Gaz’s eye. Gaz just shook his head, a grimace on his face. Roach, sighing, muttered, "This ain't gonna be easy, is it?"

Price had no answer.

The chopper ride was a blur of grinding rotors and forced silence. Soap was pale, his knuckles white where he gripped his rifle. He hadn't checked his kit with his usual meticulousness, and Ghost had to step in, double-checking his magazines and comms. It felt less like a mission and more like a tightrope walk over a chasm.

They dropped onto the desolate rooftop, the wind a chilling whisper against their faces, carrying the scent of damp earth and decay. Pripyat, a ghost town frozen in time, felt like an appropriate backdrop for their own internal desolation. The target building, a block of grey concrete, loomed before them.

"Rope’s away," Ghost murmured, securing his line. Soap clipped in, but his movements were sluggish, his eyes scanning the empty windows as if searching for something else entirely.

"𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦, 𝘵𝘸𝘰, 𝘰𝘯𝘦… 𝘨𝘰," Price’s voice crackled in their ears from the command center.

Ghost rappelled down first, a silent shadow against the building. Soap followed, but his descent was jerky, less controlled than usual. He swung awkwardly, bumping against the concrete wall. Ghost looked up, a flicker of concern in his masked gaze, but kept moving once he hit the designated window.

They breached. The interior was dark, dust motes dancing in the slivers of moonlight. Ghost moved with practiced fluidity, clearing rooms, his weapon up, his senses honed. Soap, however, was a step behind. He shuffled, his movements heavy, his eyes darting, not scanning for threats but seemingly lost in thought. He was so lost he nearly tripped over his own feet, catching himself on Ghost’s arm, who subtly steadied him without breaking stride.

“Eyes up, Johnny,” Ghost murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper only Soap could hear.

“Right, sorry L.T.”

They moved deeper into the complex, the oppressive silence broken only by the crunch of their boots. "Clear," Ghost whispered, as he swept an empty bedroom. "Movin’ on."

As they entered a long corridor, a guard suddenly appeared from a doorway mid-hall. Ghost’s M4A1 was up, the suppressor spitting fire, dropping the man before he could even raise an alarm. Soap flinched at the sound, then slowly raised his own weapon, his aim unsteady, pointing it at the already lifeless body on the floor.

"Soap, focus!" Ghost hissed, pulling him forward. They didn’t get far, however, before more of Stryker’s men appeared. They were dug in, well-armed, and ready.

Ghost immediately dropped to a knee, his rifle snapping up, taking down the first two hostiles with practiced ease. Soap, standing exposed behind him, should have been laying down suppressive fire, covering Ghost’s flank. Instead, he froze. His M4A1 was raised, but his eyes were wide, unfocused, staring past the fight, seeing something that wasn’t there.

A phantom chill snaked down Soap’s spine, a ghost of a memory: the acrid smell of burning cordite, the dust-choked air, a scream that had been filled with desperation. His grip tightened on his rifle, knuckles white, but his finger remained locked on the trigger guard. The present fight faded, replaced by the crushing weight of König’s death.

Ghost, low and focused, was already tracking movement ahead, his attention locked on the far end of the corridor where the remaining hostiles were regrouping, preparing to push. He hadn't seen the man on his flank, the one who was now aiming directly at his unprotected side, just beneath the plate of his vest.

The glint of the hostile’s barrel, catching a stray flicker of light, was like a lightning strike to Soap’s clouded mind. The phantom face of König evaporated, replaced by the stark, terrifying image of that rifle, aimed with lethal intent at the only man he trusted, the man who had always had his back. The man he 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

A guttural cry, more primal than human, tore from Soap’s throat. Time seemed to warp, stretching thin and fragile. He didn't think, he 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥. Every ounce of fear, shame, and surging protectiveness collided into a singular, explosive movement.

He lunged, a desperate, uncontrolled dive forward and to the side, his M4A1 roaring to life a split second before his body even hit the ground. The burst was wild, savage, a torrent of lead that shredded the hostile where he stood. The man didn't even get a gasp out, his body twitching violently as he crumpled, a bloody mess against the grimy wall.

Soap hit the deck hard, rolling immediately, his rifle still tracking, searching for more threats. He pushed himself up onto one knee, then glanced at Ghost, who was now turning, having heard the sudden, explosive burst from behind him.

A flicker of raw, undisguised fear still burned in Soap’s wide eyes, his breathing shallow, ragged, his face pale beneath the grime. He’d almost let… he’d almost failed again. The thought was a cold, sharp blade twisting in his gut.

Ghost, sensing the lingering danger and perhaps the depth of Soap’s inner turmoil, didn’t waste a second. He was already moving, pushing Soap roughly behind him, his own rifle still up, scanning the corridor. “Stay close!” he hissed, his voice tight with controlled fury, more at the situation than at Soap. The pause, the hesitation, had been dangerous.

“L.T. I—" Soap started, his voice strained, still grappling with the adrenaline and the near-miss.

“Save it. Just keep movin’.” Ghost cut him off, his tone brooking no argument. Now was not the time.

They continued their relentless push, the corridor narrowing, leading them deeper into Stryker’s base. The air grew heavier, thick with the smell of stale air and something metallic, like ozone.

They reached the target’s suspected office. The door was reinforced, a solid slab of steel set into the concrete. Ghost didn't waste time trying the handle. He pulled a compact breach charge from his vest, slapping it onto the doorframe. "Stand clear."

The explosion was a controlled bang, ricocheting through the reinforced door with a resounding tearing of metal and splintering of wood, echoing briefly down the hall before being swallowed by the oppressive silence.

Adrenaline, sharp and cold, flooded Ghost’s veins. He stormed through the newly formed opening, weapon leading, his movements fluid and deadly. The room was empty. A large, opulent desk stood overturned, papers scattered across the floor, but no sign of Stryker. A faint, almost sickly yellow light bled from a doorway at the far end of the office, hinting at another passage, another room. Stryker was close. Ghost could feel it.

"𝘗𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯’ 𝘪𝘯," Ghost relayed to Price. "Soap, cover my six."

As Ghost moved towards the glowing doorway, a figure burst from it, weapon raised, firing wildly. It was Stryker. Without hesitation Ghost returned fire, forcing him back, but Stryker managed to duck behind the desk, returning a steady hail of bullets.

"Soap, suppressive fire! Pin him down!" Ghost yelled, trying to flank Stryker. But Soap didn’t respond. He stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide and vacant, his rifle hanging uselessly at his side as Stryker’s bullets whizzed past Ghost’s head.

“Soap! Now!" Ghost roared, diving for cover behind a heavy bookshelf.

Stryker popped up, aiming a shot that would have surely hit Ghost if he hadn’t moved. Ghost risked a glance back at Soap. The sergeant was still there, a ghost of himself, staring blankly, seemingly unaware of the deadly ballet unfolding around him.

"Dammit, Johnny!" Ghost screamed, rage and fear mixing into a potent cocktail. He knew he couldn’t rely on Soap. He had to act. He risked a peek around the bookshelf, firing a quick burst, forcing Stryker down again.

This wasn't working. Ghost was pinned, the primary objective slipping away because his partner, 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱, was gone. He was still standing, breathing, but the man inside was absent.

A sudden, jarring sound. A thud, followed by a muffled clang. Soap’s rifle had slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the floor.

That was it. The last straw. Ghost unleashed a string of curses under his breath. He knew Price was listening, knew the whole team was. They were screwed. With Soap out of commision—

“Bloody hell, Soap, focus!” Roach’s voice, usually a calm, steady presence, cracked with a rare spike of exasperation. He and Gaz burst into the room, their weapons already up, scanning for threats.

The sight that greeted them was jarring: Ghost, pinned behind a bookshelf, trading fire with Stryker; and Soap, a statue of terror in the doorway, his rifle clattering uselessly on the polished floor.

But Soap barely registered Roach’s shout. His head was bowed, his whispered, incoherent mumble lost amidst the crackle of gunfire and the sharp, metallic tang of cordite. He wasn't seeing the plush office, the scattered papers, or the furious target beyond the desk. He was back there.

The world had narrowed to a single, unbearable point: the 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱 of the breaching charge, the same sound that had just echoed through the corridor, was the same one that had torn his world apart.

The office door had crumbled, not into splintered wood and plaster, but into a rain of concrete and twisted rebar. He felt the blinding heat, tasted the acrid smoke. König’s scream, raw and desperate, echoed in his ears, a sound that had been permanently etched into his memory.

He saw the flash of the explosion, the fiery inferno that swallowed the room, the way the floor had buckled and split beneath his feet. Debris, heavy and sharp, had rained down, each piece a shard of the collapsing reality. He’d seen the fear in König’s eyes, the moment before he’d been consumed by the inferno, utterly helpless.

His lungs burned, not from the exertion of combat, but from the phantom dust and smoke clogging them. He swayed, a puppet with severed strings, his vision blurring at the edges, the present bleeding into the past.

His hands, still stained with grime from the earlier breach, instinctively clenched, feeling the phantom rough texture of concrete dust, the phantom heat of melting steel. He was falling, the world spinning, the screams rising, rising…

Ghost, meanwhile, was fighting for his life, and for the mission. He’d risked another peek around the bookshelf, firing a burst that sent splinters flying from Stryker’s desk. “Gaz, suppressive fire! Roach, flank right, through the back!” he barked, his voice razor-sharp, cutting through the din. “Soap—”

Everything was a blur from there. At some point Soap managed to get his weapon back but it was no different than if he didn’t have it. He fired his rifle, but without conviction, his shots were often wild, his aim off.

He moved, but without purpose, sometimes lagging, sometimes rushing headlong into danger, as if daring death to claim him. Each close call, each near-disaster, was a fresh stab of guilt for Price, listening helplessly from his remote monitor, the tactical readouts screaming about Soap’s dangerously erratic performance.

The capture of Stryker was messy, achieved more by Ghost’s unrelenting ferocity and Gaz and Roach’s desperate adaptability than any cohesive team effort. Stryker was subdued, but not without significant casualties on their side—thankfully, no deaths, but several injuries including Roach’s arm and a nasty shrapnel wound to Gaz’s leg.

The extraction was a blur of frantic gunfire and hurried movements, burdened by a semi-conscious Stryker and the ever-present danger of Soap’s unpredictability.

Back at base, the debrief was short, tense, and damning. Price dismissed Gaz and Roach to the infirmary, and Ghost, after a brief, warning glance at Price, led Soap, still zombie-like, to the common room.

Price followed, his face grim. The air crackled with unspoken accusations. Soap sat on the sofa, slumped, his uniform stained with dust and blood.

“Johnny,” Price began, his voice devoid of its usual warmth, replaced by a cold, professional edge. “What the hell was tha’?”

Soap flinched, as if struck. He didn’t answer.

“You nearly got Ghost, Gaz an’ Roach killed out there!” Price pressed, his voice rising, unable to contain the frustration and fear that had gnawed at him for hours. “You were a liability! You froze! You made critical errors! That’s not the Soap I know! That’s not the sergeant who helps lead my teams!”

Soap’s head snapped up, his eyes suddenly burning, but not with anger. With self-loathing. “Aye, I know,” he rasped, his voice raw, ravaged. “I know, Price. I’m sorry. I… I couldn’t… I saw him, Price. Everywhere. In the shadows. In the smoke. I saw König. Dying. Again an’ again.” His voice cracked. “He died for 𝘮𝘦. An’ I can’t even do my job without… without...”

Ghost, who had been standing silently, moved. He placed a hand on Soap’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort that also solidified his stance between Soap and Price.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose, the weariness evident. “Johnny,” he said, his voice softening, but the steel was still there. “You’re a good man. The best. But you’re not fit for duty. Not like this.”

Soap’s head whipped around, his eyes wide with a new kind of terror. “What… wha’ are ye sayin’?”

“I’m saying… you’re off active rotation. Indefinitely.” Price's words were slow, deliberate, each one a hammer blow. “You need to get yourself right, son. Real right. Full psychological evaluation. Extended leave. Whatever it takes.”

“No!” Soap surged to his feet, swaying slightly. “No, Price, ye can’t! This is all I am! I’m a soldier! I’m 141! I belong ‘ere!” His voice was a desperate plea, a desperate cry. “Please, sir, don’t take this from me! It’s all I hav’ left!”

“This isn’t punishment, Johnny, it’s a necessity!” Price countered, his voice aching. “You’re a danger to yourself an’ your team right now. We nearly lost Ghost, Gaz and Roach because you couldn’t hold it together! You endangered the mission! I made a mistake letting König go, but I won’t make another one by lettin’ you stay on the field like this. Not when lives are at stake.”

Soap stared at him, tears pricking his eyes again, but these were tears of betrayal and fear, not just grief. “So that’s it then? I’m… I’m out? After all this time?” His voice was barely a whisper. “You’re kickin’ me out?”

Ghost’s hand tightened on Soap’s shoulder, a silent warning to Price. The air in the room grew cold, thick with the unspoken threat of what Ghost might do if Price pushed too far.

“No one’s kicking you out, Johnny,” Price said, his gaze firm, meeting Ghost’s silent challenge. “But you need to heal. An’ if you can’t… if you can’t recover from this, if you can’t get your head straight an’ be the man we all know you are… then yes, your time with active duty will be over. It’s a risk, Johnny. A real risk. For all o’ us.”

The words hung in the air, a chilling prophecy. Soap crumpled, his legs giving out again, but this time Ghost caught him, lowering him gently to the floor. Soap buried his face in Ghost’s chest, not sobbing, but shaking, a silent, profound tremor that spoke of a spirit cracking under an unbearable weight.

Ghost held him, his masked gaze fixed on Price, cold and unyielding. The silence that followed was thick with the dust of shattered trust and the chilling echo of Price’s words.

Price watched them for a moment longer, his shoulders slumping with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. The words he’d spoken were necessary, but they had torn a hole in the fabric of their unit, and he felt it keenly. With a final, conflicted glance, he turned and left the common room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, leaving Ghost and Soap in a silence that echoed with the weight of his decree.

The mission had been a disaster, a stark demonstration of how deeply fractured they truly were. And now, the very fabric of Task Force 141, already torn by loss, seemed on the verge of unraveling completely, with Soap, their vibrant, loveable sergeant, teetering on the edge of losing everything he was.

Slowly, the violent tremors wracking Soap’s body began to subside, replaced by a deep, shuddering breath. He pushed himself away from Ghost, straightening up, though his movements were still clumsy, the grace of his usual movements absent.

He didn’t meet Ghost’s gaze, instead he stared at the floor, at the dust clinging to his boots. The fight had drained out of him, replaced by a hollow despair. What Price said… it wasn't just a threat. It was the truth. He 𝘩𝘢𝘥 frozen. He 𝘩𝘢𝘥 endangered his team. His mind, usually so focused, had been a maelstrom of guilt and phantom images of König.

He couldn’t let this continue.

With a heavy sigh, Soap pushed past Ghost, heading for their bunk without a word.

Ghost watched him go, a cold, hard knot forming in his stomach. He’d seen men break before, but never like this, never Soap. And the thought of what Price might have to do, what Soap might become if he couldn't pull himself back from the brink… Ghost didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The days that followed blurred into a monotonous, suffocating routine for Soap. Confined to quarters, stripped of his responsibilities, every waking moment was a fresh reminder of Price's words. He felt like a phantom of himself, haunting the halls of the base he no longer belonged to, the very air an accusation.

He tried to draw, to train in the gym, to do anything to banish the memory of König, but it was relentless. The faces of Gaz and Roach, their near-miss, replayed endlessly. He was a failure. He was broken. Worthless.

The mandetory psych evaluations were a cruel joke. How could he explain the phantom weight of König's body, the recurring image of the masked giant fading, eyes wide and unseeing, into the dust?

The shrink spoke of triggers and trauma, but Soap only heard the distant clang of the bell tolling for his career, a death knell for the only identity he’d ever known. He’d nod, give curt, non-committal answers, desperate to escape the forced intimacy, to go back to the safe, silent prison of his room.

Every glance from a soldier passing in the corridor felt like a judgment, every whispered conversation a confirmation of his failure. He imagined them talking about him, "poor MacTavish," "lost his nerve," "liability."

Gaz and Roach, though physically recovered, looked at him with a mixture of pity and concern that only fueled his self-loathing. He saw the way their eyes lingered, the hesitant attempts at conversation that died before they even began. It was worse than anger, worse than accusation. It was the quiet, damning sorrow of friends who saw him unraveling, and he couldn't bear it.

He avoided the common room, eating alone, picking at food he couldn't taste. His rifle, once an extension of himself, felt alien and heavy. He spent hours staring at the wall in his bunk, the only sound the ragged echo of his own breathing.

Ghost, ever-present in the periphery of Soap’s crumbling world, observed his quiet desperation with a chilling clarity. He saw the way Soap’s eyes, usually so vibrant with mischief or fierce determination, were now hollow and distant, like wells that had run dry.

He noted the increasing tremors in Soap's hands, visible even when he tried to clench them into fists, the way he flinched violently at sudden sounds—a door slamming, a distant siren. He saw the visible weight loss, the unkempt hair, the way Soap seemed to shrink into himself, occupying less and less space.

Ghost knew Price’s assessment was accurate—Soap wasn't fit for duty, not like this. He was a danger to himself and others. But he also knew that for Soap, stripping him of his identity as a soldier, was akin to a death sentence, a slower, more agonizing end than any bullet could deliver.

Every day he cursed himself for not knowing how to properly help Soap. He wasn’t good with words, his own throat constricting around anything beyond a grunt or a command.

He barely managed to contain his own hauntings, the echoes of his past traumas a constant, low thrum beneath his own skin. He never knew the right thing to do, the right thing to say. He only knew that Soap needed him, that much was a bone-deep certainty, and the only way he could be there was to be present, a silent, watchful shadow. And he hated that. He hated his own inadequacy.

Soap had been there for him, not just with words of comfort, but with a steady, unwavering presence and a shoulder to lean on in his own dark times. But when the roles were reversed, when Soap was drowning, Ghost couldn’t even return the favor. He was like a mute, watching a man choke, unable to offer a single word of guidance or reassurance.

It was infuriating and everyday he resented himself more. For failing Soap. For failing to save König in the first place, for not anticipating the shifting sands of war, for not being 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 or 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.

He should be able to do more, to reach out, to pull Soap back from the edge, but instead he was too broken himself. Only worthwhile as a soldier—a killer. König was proof of that, a life taken, a duty fulfilled. Hell, 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱’𝘴 condition was proof of that, the collateral damage of Ghost's own twisted existence, his inability to be anything more than what he was.

The ensuing days were a suffocating quiet, each moment echoing with the weight of that truth. Ghost found himself trapped in a cycle of self-punishment, the image of Soap, withdrawn and silent, a constant torment.

Soap, in turn, existed in a haze of recovery, his usual fire estinguished, his mind adrift in the murky waters of trauma. It was a shared, unspoken purgatory, a silence so profound it felt like an ending, a definitive closure to their former lives. Soap had almost accepted it, the slow, agonizing descent into this new, bleak reality.

Then, four months after the joint mission that changed everything, a small vibration jolted Soap from his stupor. A new message flashed across his burner phone—a device he rarely used, one he’d kept for discreet comms deep in the field. His heart hammered as he picked it up. It was an unfamiliar number, untraceable, and the message was unsettlingly brief: 𝘔𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘭𝘥 𝘋𝘰𝘨’𝘴 𝘋𝘦𝘯, 𝘵𝘮𝘳. 24:00. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

Soap read it once, twice, a third time. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦. The words echoed through his mind, a never ending loop. König. A wild, desperate hope, a fragile, dangerous ember, ignited in the expanse of his despair. König was the only one this message could be about.

Logic screamed at him. It was a trap. A cruel joke. A delusion. The message didn’t hold any evidence that this was about König, but the desperate need to believe, to cling to any possibility that König wasn't truly gone, was a current too strong to fight. It was a lifeline in the suffocating darkness, a sliver of light in the abyss of his despair.

If there was even a fraction of a chance... he had to take it. He shoved the phone in his pocket, his decision made. He wouldn't tell anyone. Not Gaz, not Roach, not even Ghost and especially not Price. He knew what Price would say: 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘬, 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘯𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮. And he couldn't risk Price—𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦—stopping him. This was his burden, his desperate gamble. If it was a trap, he would face it alone. If it was a cruel prank, then so be it. But no matter what, he had to go.

Slipping out of the base wasn't easy, but his training was ingrained into his very bones. He moved through the shadowed corridors after lights out, a phantom in the night. He packed light: a knife, a suppressed sidearm, and the burner phone. And without looking back, he left.

Ghost, however, wasn’t so easy to fool. He'd noticed the subtle shift in Soap's demeanor earlier that day—the way Soap had clutched his burner phone (usually left unaknowleged), like a lifeline. He saw the way a flicker of something, 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦, had ignited in Soap’s dead eyes.

He'd even seen the frantic, deliberate way Soap avoided his gaze, the sudden, almost manic energy that replaced his usual lack of energy.

When Soap’s shadow slipped out of their bunk and down the corridor, Ghost was already moving, a silent wraith in the deeper shadows, following at a discreet distance. He didn’t know what Soap was up to, but he knew it was something dangerous, something Soap felt compelled to do alone. And alone was the last thing Soap needed to be right now.

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The Old Dog’s Den was a small, cozy pub on the outskirts of the town. Soap remembered it instantly. It was the place he’d taken König after his first mission with 141, the night they’d shared lukewarm beers and a strange, comforting quiet night.

He remembered König’s discomfort with the small, enclosed space, his almost childlike joy with the food. The memory was stark: König, usually so imposing and self-contained, had eaten free and openly, each bite seemingly savored, a rare moment of unguarded contentment on his masked features.

Soap had watched him, a quiet warmth spreading through his own chest, a sensation he hadn't known how to process back then. Now, a pang of something akin to grief, mixed with the desperate surge of hope, twisted in Soap’s gut. The memories were vivid, potent, almost unbearable.

To top it off, Soap arrived in town late, the rain having turned into a bitter sleet that pricked at his exposed skin like a thousand tiny needles. The biting wind whipped around corners, carrying the smell of wet earth and distant woodsmoke.

He pulled his collar up high around his neck, hunching his shoulders against the elements, and hurried down the dimly lit streets, his boots crunching softly on the slush. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, each beat a question, an anticipation. He scanned every shadow, every fleeting reflection in the puddles, half-expecting to see a familiar silhouette, even though he knew the rendezvous point was the pub.

He found the bar easily enough, a quiet establishment with a neon sign flickering above the door. He paused for a moment, the sleet stinging his face, and took a deep, shuddering breath, the icy air burning his lungs.

This was it.

He pushed the heavy wooden door open, stepping inside. The bar was a sudden embrace of warmth, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. It was dimly lit and smoky, filled with the comfortable murmur of conversations and the cheerful clinking of glasses.

The air hung thick with the scent of stale beer, fried food, and old wood, oddly comforting in its familiarity. Soap’s eyes, accustomed to the gloom, slowly adjusted, sweeping across the room. He scanned the clusters of patrons, the laughter carrying over from a table near the dartboard, the quiet intensity of a poker game in the corner, searching for a familiar face, any sign that he was in the right place.

Then he saw it. A table in the furthest corner, tucked away from the main hubbub, beneath a dusty, framed print of a hunting scene. A single figure sat alone, nursing a drink, a half-empty pint of dark ale. They took a sip of their drink, eyes scanning the room before landing on Soap resulting in their body fully tensing. A hint of recognition, profound and weary, flickered in their eyes.

Bingo.

Soap’s heart thundered, the anticipation almost unbearable, a desperate need to close the distance and get answers, confirm what his suspicions were telling him. But before he could take another step, before he could even utter a sound, a hand shot out, grabbing his arm with an iron grip. It was a familiar, unwelcome pressure that pulled him back.

"Johnny," Ghost's voice rumbled, low and dangerous, a predator’s growl that cut through the bar’s ambient noise as if it were nothing. "What do you think you're doing?"

Soap stared, a complex mix of anger and profound, unexpected relief washing over him. "𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵?" he whispered, his voice a raw rasp of surprise. "What in God's name are ye doin' ere’? Ye followed me, dinae ya, ye daft bastard!" The anger was a thin veneer over the gratitude pooling in his chest. He’d been so alone, so completely out on a limb. But Ghost was here, a silent anchor in the storm.

"O’course, I followed you, Johnny. You’re an open book,” Ghost replied, his voice a low growl, laced with a familiar, weary exasperation. Then his eyes narrowed, shifting slightly towards the corner table. “You shouldn't be ere’.”

"I got a message," Soap said, his voice urgent, pleading, desperate. His gaze flickered back to the figure, who seemed to have subtly shifted, becoming a still, unmoving statue. "They said König's alive.”

Ghost’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching under the balaclava. "Don't be a fool, Johnny. He's gone. We both saw it." The finality in his tone, the cold, stark truth of those words, was like a slap.

"But wha’ if he isn't?" Soap pleaded, his voice cracking with the desperate fragility of his hope. "Wha’ if there's a chance?"

"There is no chance, Soap," Ghost said firmly, his grip tightening on Soap’s arm, a silent command wrapped in bone-deep conviction. "This is a trap. Someone's playing you."

"I have to try," Soap insisted, his voice rising, drawing more curious glances. He felt a desperate urge to pull away from Ghost, to march over to that table and wrench the answers from the silent figure. "I can't just give up."

"You're being reckless," Ghost retorted, his voice low but sharp with controlled fury. "You're letting your emotions cloud your judgement."

"An’ you're being too stubborn to see the truth!" Soap snapped back, his own temper flaring, fuelled by frustration and fear. "You're so used to being right, you can't even consider the possibility tha’ you might be wrong!"

Their voices, though kept relatively low by Ghost, still carried, cutting through the comfortable bar noise. The patrons nearest them subtly shifted, their conversations dying down to curious whispers. Ghost’s eyes blazed, a silent warning. "We're not doin’ this ere’. Come on, we're leaving." He began to exert pressure, trying to pull Soap towards the door.

"No!" Soap protested, digging his heels in, pulling away from Ghost's iron grip with a sharp jerk that surprised even Ghost. The figure in the corner hadn't moved, but Soap felt their gaze, a silent, heavy weight. "I'm not leaving. I have to meet this guy."

"You're not going in there alone," Ghost said, his voice unwavering, a rock-solid declaration that brooked no argument. Every word was delivered with the weight of absolute certainty. Then, with a heavy sigh, "If you're determined to do this, we'll do it together."

Soap stared at Ghost, his initial anger slowly dissolving under the torrent of Ghost’s unwavering loyalty, replaced by a grudging warmth that spread through his chest. “You don't ave’ to do this, Si."

"I know," Ghost said. "But I'm not letting you walk into a potential death trap by yourself, Johnny. Now, are we doing this, or are we going to stand ere’ arguing all night?"

Soap sighed, a sense of relief washing over him. He was still furious that Ghost had followed him, that he’d been so easily read, but he also knew that Ghost was right, that he 𝘸𝘢𝘴 being reckless. And having the imposing lieutenant by his side, even if he was being overprotective, was a profound comfort. It was the kind of comfort he hadn't realized he so desperately needed until it was offered.

"A’right," Soap said, his voice resigned, the last sparks of his protest draining out of him. He let out a slow, shuddering breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "Let's go."

Ghost nodded, a single, decisive movement. He didn't release Soap's arm completely, but shifted his grip, subtly guiding him, a silent promise of solidarity. Together, they began to move, a slow, deliberate advance across the worn wooden floor.

Each step was heavy with anticipation, the air around them crackling with unspoken questions. The low murmur of the pub’s patrons seemed to grow louder, then fade again, as if the world was holding its breath.

As they drew closer, the details of the figure in the corner became sharper. He was tall and muscular, with dark hair parted at the side for his short bangs that reached the middle of his forehead in a swoop to the right and a stern expression half hidden behind a neck gaiter. He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, and his arms were covered in intricate tattoos.

The air thickened with unspoken tension. Soap felt Ghost’s grip tighten on his arm, a silent warning, a grounding force. He could feel Ghost's intense scrutinizing gaze on the figure, assessing, analyzing, looking for any sign of a trap.

Finally, they stood a few feet from the table, close enough to hear the soft, almost imperceptible shift of fabric as the figure subtly tensed further.

It was then they both recognized the man before them. There was no mistaking who this was. Instantly, Soap and Ghost’s hands reached for their concealed weapons. The flicker of hope in Soap's eyes now replaced by a cold, hard edge. They stood before the table, their faces masks of cold fury.

"𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪," Ghost's voice was a low growl, barely above a whisper, yet it carried an undeniable weight, a predatory edge that made the man at the table tense with the urge to draw his own weapon. "Wha’ the 'ell is this?"

Chapter Text

The air thrummed with the violent reverberations of heavy rotor blades, a sound that vibrated deep in Horangi’s bones, competing with the phantom ache of the ground beneath his feet. A cloud of thick, acrid smoke clawed at the sky, a monstrous, churning beast that blotted out the pale dawn.

Beneath it, a testament to raw, explosive power, lay what remained of the factory. It wasn’t merely damaged; it was obliterated. Where once stood reinforced concrete and steel, now existed only a sprawling, jagged expanse of crumpled dust, twisted rebar, and pulverized brick, meticulously reduced to brittle, broken debris. It looked less like a building had fallen and more like the very earth had coughed it up in pieces.

The factory had crumpled to nothing, a skeletal hand of rebar reaching for the sky from a grave of its own making.

Horangi stood a ways off, far enough for the superheated air to no longer sear his lungs, but close enough for the metallic tang of burnt explosives to still cling to his tongue. His mask felt heavy, a burden rather than a shield. He had observed the entire demolition from a safe vantage point, well before the final, concussive CRUMP had atomized the structure.

He and KorTac were the architects of this destruction, the calculated hand behind the devastation. They had won. The target, the intel, the strategic advantage—all theirs. 141 had been thwarted, their operation derailed, their assets destroyed.

So why did he feel so profoundly hollow?

There should have been elation, the savage satisfaction of a victory hard-won. Instead, an emptiness gnawed at his gut, a cold, spreading void that swallowed every flicker of triumph. He had won this round, yes, but he had lost something immeasurably greater, something he knew, with a bone-chilling certainty, he could never recover from.

He had lost König.

His friend, forged in the harsh reality of KorTac’s brutal contracts and shadowy alliances. König, who had sworn loyalty, who had fought beside him through hell and back. König, his hulking, awkward, surprisingly gentle best friend. The one person he could call family.

The loss was twofold, a twist of the knife that made it doubly unbearable. He had lost König to the explosion, yes, but more agonizingly, he had lost him to 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. To 141. König had chosen them. He had betrayed KorTac, betrayed 𝘩𝘪𝘮. The word tasted like ash: 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗼𝗿.

Hutch had been the one to deliver the final, crushing blow of information, his voice hoarse, eyes clouded with fury. As the factory began its final, catastrophic collapse, König had sacrificed himself. For Soap. For the bloody 141. The sheer, unfathomable goddamn stupidity of it made Horangi’s teeth clench.

It was a betrayal so profound it defied logic, a self-immolation for the very enemy they had sworn to destroy. For a moment, a primal roar threatened to tear from his throat, a furious shout of rage and grief and utter disbelief. He wanted to scream until his vocal cords shredded, until the world understood the monumental injustice of it all.

But he couldn’t. Not now. The familiar silhouette of their extraction helicopter was already dropping from the smoky sky, its landing gear unfolding with a hydraulic sigh. The blades spun slower now, kicking up dust and debris, a visual cue that their time here was done. Retreat. Two men short. Roze, dead, killed by König’s hands in a final stand. And König, dead, killed by his own twisted sense of incomprehensible love for the very people he should have been fighting.

The irony was a bitter, metallic taste on Horangi’s tongue.

He’d seen it, of course. He’d known König was growing close to 141 (had already done so), especially to Soap, the Scot with the quick wit and the even quicker blade, and to Ghost, the silent, watchful shadow who seemed to understand König’s own quiet complexities. Horangi had recognized the bond, even respected it, in a detached, professional way. But he’d never, not in his darkest nightmares, thought König would 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 him for them. Never thought he’d choose them over the loyalty sworn to KorTac. Especially after the way the two soldiers closest to König from that faction had seemed to toss him away like so many others before them.

Yet, a small, fragile part of Horangi, a part he clung to with desperate tenacity, had to believe it. Had to believe that what Soap and Ghost, what 141, had offered König was something the Austrian had always longed for. Something Horangi, something KorTac, could never truly provide.

Freedom from the shadows he’d always inhabited. A home, a sense of belonging that transcended mere objective-based missions. Love, perhaps, in the unspoken camaraderie and unwavering trust they seemed to extend. It was the only way to make sense of the betrayal, the only way to not crumble into a broken, hateful mess. The only way to not 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 König.

Horangi turned, eyes scanning the faces of his remaining team. Calisto, grim and unreadable. Hutch, still overcome with rage. Aksel, a silent, menacing shadow. Nikto, his mask a stark, impassive barrier. All of them carrying the invisible scars of this catastrophic win. They moved in silence, a procession of shadows towards the landing chopper, the roar of its turbines drowning out the internal screams of a Korean who felt utterly broken.

Calisto was already jogging toward it, her movements precise even in exhaustion. Aksel followed, his face grim. Nikto, a silent, imposing figure, gestured for Horangi to move. They were three, soon to be five, on a bird meant for seven.

Horangi was about to step onto the ramp, the first cold blast of air from the cabin hitting his face, when Nikto stopped dead. His masked face tilted, eyes fixed on a specific spot amidst the smouldering wreckage. Aksel followed his gaze, then Hutch, then Calisto. A collective, gut-wrenching silence fell, punctuated only by the chopper’s engine.

In the midst of the ash and pulverized concrete, half-obscured by a fallen girder, a shape. Unmistakable. It was too clear, too defined to be more debris. A figure.

The distinct outline of a large man, sprawled face down, a tattered ghillie suit clinging to his frame. And then, unmistakable, the hood.

König.

He was there. Not a rumour. Not a sacrifice observed by a third party. Not an implication. A body. A corpse. A 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 corpse.

Horangi’s stomach, already a hollow pit, dropped impossibly further, through the floor, through the earth itself, into an abyss he hadn’t known existed. The rage, the grief, the betrayal—they combined into a cold, suffocating dread. This wasn't relief. This wasn't closure. This was worse. Far, far worse than even death.

This was a cruel joke played by fate. A curse disguised as a blessing. Despite everything, he wished König’s barely moving body, half clinging to life, let go. Stopped struggling and died. Death would be a far greater mercy than what was about to happen.

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The air in the closed off room hung thick with the scent of decay and iron, a metallic tang that clung to the back of König's throat. Thick chains, cold and unforgiving, bit into his wrists, hoisting him off the ground like a cattle after the slaughter. His vision swam in and out of focus, the dim light of the grimy windows doing little to pierce the haze of his misery.

The crumbling factory hadn't been kind. A support beam had collapsed, catching him in the crossfire. He remembered the searing agony as the debris rained down, the desperate crawl to escape before finally succumbing to unconsciousness. Now, he was here, at the mercy of those he'd betrayed.

Crimson stained his tattered tactical gear, blooming like dark roses across the fabric. Jagged lacerations crisscrossed his arms and legs, souvenirs from his desperate scramble through the crumbling structure. A gash above his left eye had swollen shut, obscuring his vision and weeping crimson tears that mingled with the grime coating his face. Blood trickled from his nose and split lip, gathering in the stubble of his jaw.

He tasted copper, a constant, bitter companion in his current predicament. His breathing came in ragged gasps, each inhale a painful reminder of fractured ribs. Every twitch sent jolts of fire through his body, a symphony of agony orchestrated by the unyielding chains. His left leg throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, hinting at a sprain, or worse, and officially taking away any chance he had to escape. He was pinned, forced to succumb to whatever lay in store next.

He wasn’t sure how long he'd been here, hanging in this endless darkness. All he did know was that every second that ticked by meant to be another moment of torture to break him was really a blessing. The true agony hadn’t even begun, but it would soon enough.

He sighed, the air catching in his lungs and coming out in a harsh coughing fit.

He had been so close. He had managed to save Soap, to secure the safety of the 141. But in doing so, he had betrayed KorTac. He had chosen loyalty, a concept that now seemed a cruel joke in this cold, unforgiving space, to the very people who would’ve rather seen him dead. But it was worth it.

It was worth it because despite everything, the world would still be graced with Soap’s smile. His joyful laugh and energy that engulfed you with the warmth of the sun. The air would still be filled with Roach and Gaz’s teasing and bickering that should drive you crazy and yet made you feel at home. The world would still have Price, a captain who treats his men with respect and care instead of with cold, hard detachment. And the world would still have Ghost, a soldier who despite all his own hauntings would still succumb himself to more sorrow and torture if it meant he could keep the few people he still held dear in the world safe.

Just knowing they got to be free was enough. In the grand scheme of things his death was a small price to pay. In the end, T.F. 141 wouldn’t have shed a tear over his burial anyway. And he was grateful for that fact. It was a deception gone on far too long for them to have treated him so kindly, treated him like a person who belonged amongst them. This was always his fate, and it was time he accepted that.

The heavy clang of metal echoed from the doorway and forced König out of his thoughts. It was time.

Oni stepped into the room, his expression a mask of cold indifference. His eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual suspicion, hardened slightly as they took in König’s ravaged state.

"Disappointing," Oni hissed, his voice a low, grating growl. He circled König like a predator assessing its prey. "I knew you couldn't be trusted, König. You always had that… flicker of dissent in your eyes. One day you were going to find something you thought was better than what you had here and then turn against us. It was always a matter of when.”

Oni chuckled with no real humor, his eyes flicking up and down König’s battered form. “You thought you were so clever, playing us against the 141. But loyalty is a fickle thing, you see. And you chose the wrong side."

Spit dribbled down König's chin. He couldn't muster the strength to do more than glare, a silent defiance that only seemed to fuel Oni's rage.

"You deserve this," Oni spat, punctuating each word with a jab of his finger. The small force sent shockwaves throughout König’s body, his teeth clenching to keep the pain at bay. "Every agonizing moment. May you suffer for your treachery. You abandoned your oath, your brothers in arms. This... this is what disloyalty gets you. We’ll let what happens here be a lesson to anyone else who dares betray KorTac." He paused, savoring the moment. "Enjoy what's coming, König. It's what you've earned." With a final, disgusted glare, Oni turned and vanished into the shadows

Silence descended once more, heavy and suffocating. König closed his good eye, trying to block out the pain, the fear, the crushing weight of his situation. He braced himself, knowing what was coming.

Then, the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps. Slow, deliberate, each footfall resonating with a chilling promise. There was only one person that could be.

Mace.

The name alone was enough to send a chill down his spine, a feat considering the burning agony already consuming him. The man was a mountain, an implacable force of nature wrapped in Kevlar and malice. He never had the pleasure of meeting the man, but he knew enough about him to know what was to come would be straight out of the devil’s nightmares.

The giant filled the doorway, an imposing silhouette against the faint light. Even in the gloom, König could sense the man's unsettling presence, a palpable aura of menace. Mace moved with a predatory grace, his movements fluid and silent despite his size. He carried himself with an unsettling calm, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within König.

Mace did not speak immediately. He simply observed König, his gaze like a physical weight. He circled him slowly, a shark sizing up its prey. The chains rattled softly as König involuntarily recoiled, the sound magnified in the oppressive silence.

Finally, Mace spoke, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. "So this is the indestructible König, huh?”

A low chuckle escaped Mace, a sound devoid of humor, filled only with a chilling anticipation. He began to circle König again, each step deliberate, measured. He ran a gloved hand across a table laden with deadly instruments, the metallic clink of steel against steel echoing ominously.

“I guess that indestructibleness of yours finally came to bite you in the ass.” He mused.

König didn't bother to answer. What was there to say? Any protest, any plea for mercy, would be swallowed by the vast emptiness of the cell and by Mace’s utter indifference. He simply kept his eyes downcast, defiance his only shield.

Mace sighed, coming to stop before him, an impassive mask reflecting the dim light. For a long, silent moment, he simply stared. König refused to flinch, to betray any sign of weakness.

Then, Mace spoke again, his voice a low, guttural rumble that resonated in the confined space. “Gotta say, I was expecting more from the ‘King of the battlefield’.” He kneeled down, lowering himself so that their eyes would meet. “Guess not all legends live up to the hype.”

König’s eyes widened slightly as he was brought face to face with a skull mask, his body seizing with the need to 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺.

𝗚𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁.

That’s all his mind could scream as he took in the man before him. Logically, he knew that was impossible—Ghost thought he was dead. Ghost would never leave the 141 for KorTac. Ghost would never 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺 his team to come here.

Not to mention their voices, while both deep, resonating sounds, were significantly different. Ghost held an unmistakable British accent weighed down by the rasp of a smoker where Mace held an undeniable American accent that consisted of a smooth rumble.

Even their builds, while similar, were still different. Where Ghost was more slim in the shoulders Mace was broad. And while Ghost had an impressive amount of muscle on his arms, Mace outdid him by a few centimeters. Something so small and yet made all the difference.

And lastly, the thing that truly set apart the two skull-masked men wasn’t the slight differences in their masks but the scars imprinted on Mace’s arms. They were broadcasted like a signal over each bicep—small dots of scar tissue stretching across in vertical lines all the way down to his elbows.

He wasn’t Ghost. And yet every fiber in König’s body reacted to him like he was. The comparison, the chilling, illogical certainty that this 𝘸𝘢𝘴 Ghost locked König in place. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only stare into the vacant eye-slits of the bone-white mask as the world seemed to slow around him.

Then, the suffocating weight of his own irrational terror, a primal instinct overriding all logic, was abruptly punctuated by a sharp, firm touch against his jawline. A gloved hand, large and surprisingly gentle at first, cupped his face, thumb resting just beneath his ear where his pulse hammered a frantic rhythm.

Mace, his skull mask an unreadable void of shadow and bone, leaned closer, the scent of ozone and something metallic—blood?—filling König’s nostrils. A low, disappointed sound rumbled from deep within the man’s chest, a soft 'tsk' that held all the weary resignation of a parent scolding a petulant child.

“Quiet are we?” The words, a deep, even rhythm, were laced with a dry, almost intellectual amusement that prickled König's skin, making goosebumps rise beneath his clothes.

Before König could even formulate a sound, a protest, a desperate plea, Mace’s grip tightened. His thumb and fingers pressed inward, squeezing König’s cheeks with an almost affectionate force, distorting his mouth into a fish-like pout under the hood.

It was a gesture sickeningly familiar, a parody of an attentive grandmother pinching a grandchild’s rosy cheeks. The pressure was firm, not violent, but utterly dominating, forcing König to continue to meet the vacant stares of the skull mask’s eyeholes. He could feel the slight give of his own flesh, the pull at the corners of his lips, the almost comical distortion of his features. Shame and terror warred within him.

Then, a low, guttural laugh erupted from Mace, a sound entirely devoid of warmth, yet full of dark amusement. It began as a deep vibration in his chest, a rumble that König could feel through the hand still cupping his face, before blossoming into a full-throated, mirthless cackle that echoed in the confined space, chilling König to his very core. It was the sound of a predator delighting in its prey’s paralysis, a sound that promised prolonged torment rather than swift dispatch.

The laughter echoed, a wave of sound crashing against König’s eardrums, vibrating through the bones of his skull. It was raw, unhinged, yet controlled, a terrifying symphony of dark intent. The gloved hand remained, a vise on his jaw, holding him captive, forcing him to witness the mirthless glee in Mace’s posture.

König could feel the tremor of the man’s chest against his palm, the silent, vibrating promise of pain. Shame burned hot and sharp, mingling with the chilling tendrils of fear. He was reduced to a helpless puppet, his face contorted into a twisted mockery by the very hand that held him.

When the last echoes of the laugh finally died, the silence that followed was heavier, more oppressive than before. Mace remained kneeling, his large frame filling König's vision, the skull mask a leering judgment. His grip didn't lessen, the pressure a constant, humiliating reminder of König’s utter powerlessness.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Mace’s voice, when it came, was a low, almost tender murmur, a stark contrast to the preceding storm of laughter. It was the voice of a man admiring a particularly exquisite piece of artwork, or a collector appraising a rare find. “The ‘King of the battlefield’… brought so low. Chained like some stray dog. So… 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.”

His thumb, still resting beneath König’s ear, began to trace a slow, deliberate path along his jawline, a sensation that made König’s skin crawl. It wasn't rough, not yet, but the deliberate, possessive touch was infinitely worse, a violation of his personal space, a declaration of ownership.

Every touch was a tether, pulling him deeper into a nightmare he couldn't escape. König’s breath hitched, a silent battle waged within him to keep his composure, to prevent the tremor in his hands from spreading to his entire frame. The cold, metallic scent of the cell air tangled with Mace’s ozone and blood, a nauseating cocktail.

Mace leaned in even closer, the vacant eye-slits of the mask seeming to bore into König’s soul. He could feel the warmth of Mace’s breath, surprisingly humid against his cheek, even through the mask. It was an invasion, an intimacy forced upon him that made his stomach churn.

“You know, I’ve heard stories about you, König,” Mace continued, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing a secret. “They say you’re a brute, a beast. That you thrive on chaos, on the smell of gunpowder and the scream of dying men.” He paused, and König could almost hear the smile in his voice, a cruel, predatory curve of lips hidden beneath the bone-white facade. “But here? Here you just look… lost.”

The word ‘lost’ hung in the air, a barb aimed directly at König’s deepest vulnerability. He 𝘸𝘢𝘴 lost. Stripped of his weapons, his armor, his reputation, he was a giant without a purpose, a predator without a hunt. The truth of Mace’s words, delivered with such dispassionate precision, stung more than any physical blow.

The comparison to Ghost, the illogical certainty that flared whenever Mace moved or spoke, clawed at the edges of his sanity. It was like watching a dark, twisted mirror image of a man he respected, a man he had, against all odds, come to love. A man who was supposed to be dead to him, yet here he was, in another man’s body, twisting the knife.

Mace's grip finally loosened, then released. The sudden absence of pressure left König’s face throbbing, his lips still feeling distended. He instinctively tried to pull back, but the chains rattled, a stark reminder of his confinement. Mace, with an almost unnatural grace that seemed impossible for a man of his bulk, straightened up, rising to his full, imposing height. He stood over König, a shadow swallowing the faint light, his presence as suffocating as a shroud.

Mace remained silent for a long moment, simply observing König, letting the weight of his presence press down on the chained man. The low hum of the ventilation system was the only sound, a distant, mechanical breath in the oppressive quiet. Mace’s head tilted slightly, the skull mask seeming to stare, calculating.

“You know, König,” Mace’s voice cut through the silence, no longer a murmur, but a crisp, clear statement, resonating with a disturbing authority. “I 𝘥𝘪𝘥 expect more from you. Especially after what I heard about your last mission.”

A jolt went through König. The dread, already a persistent companion, solidified into a cold, hard knot in his gut. The last mission. His betrayal. Roze. He hadn't thought Mace would know the details, or care. His jaw clenched, a desperate attempt to control the sudden tremor that threatened to run through his compromised frame.

Mace took a slow step back, then another, beginning a deliberate, unhurried circle around König, his heavy boots making no sound on the grimy floor. “Killing Roze like that… it was quite a display, I’m told. Efficient. Brutal.” His voice held a strange, almost academic detachment. “A shame, really. I worked alongside her for a time, even brought her into the fold myself. Saw potential in that particular brand of reckless abandon.”

König’s breath hitched. 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯. The words were like a physical blow, striking deep. The memory of Roze, her tenacious fury, her utter fearlessness, flickered in his mind, immediately followed by the stark, brutal image of her final moments at his hand.

The cold dread Mace had invoked was a physical weight now, pressing down on his chest, making it hard to draw air. He remembered the thrill of the hunt, the imperative of the mission, the absolute necessity of the kill. But now, under Mace’s chilling scrutiny, it felt like a cruel, unforgivable act.

“Though,” Mace continued, halting his slow orbit to stand directly in front of König once more, “I suppose I shouldn’t be 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 surprised. Roze was always getting in over her head. Always chasing the biggest explosion, the deadliest target. A tenacious little viper, but utterly reckless, as I said.”

There was a hint of something akin to exasperation in Mace’s tone now, but it was quickly overshadowed by something far colder, far more final. “Still, that doesn’t mean I’m going to let it slide. Not for a moment.”

The words hung in the air, a pronouncement of judgment, a promise of retribution. König’s blood ran cold. He had killed Roze by necessity, by order. He had done what was required. But to Mace, it was personal. This wasn’t just a capture; it was an execution, meticulously drawn out, detail by agonizing detail. He was not just imprisoned; he was being 𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘥, and the verdict had already been decided.

Mace stepped in close again, his form eclipsing the faint light, a chilling, intimate shadow. He reached out, not to König’s face this time, but to his shackled wrists, his gloved fingers brushing the cold metal of the manacle. The touch was light, almost caressing, but it sent a fresh wave of revulsion through König.

“Acfions have consequences. And yours are far from paid,” Mace whispered, his voice dangerously soft, a silken cord tightening around König’s throat.

Then, Mace turned, his gaze drifting lazily to the table laden with instruments. He walked towards it, his steps unhurried, measured. The clink of metal echoed as he reached out, his gloved fingers idly tracing the cold, sharp edges of a scalpel, then a pair of long, wicked-looking pliers. Each touch was deliberate, each sound a chilling promise.

“Do you want to know something I've learned over the years, König?" Mace mused, his voice echoing slightly as he turned the pliers over in his hand, the dull gleam of polished steel catching the gloom.

“People, in their last moments, show you who they really are. No matter what they've done in their lives, who they've pretended to be or thought they were, when faced with death's doors they always reveal the truth. And so, in a way, I knew them better than their friends, families, hell even themselves, ever did." He turned back to König, holding up the pliers, not menacingly, but with a casual display that was far more terrifying.

“And you, König.” He chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “I've always wondered just who you really were beneath that mask of yours. That image you always portray.” He paused, and König could practically feel the sardonic smile forming beneath the skull mask. “They say that the best way to break a legend is to start with the myth that built him.” Mace continued, his voice a low, thoughtful murmur, a deceptive softness that was more terrifying than any shout.

“And your myth, König,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, graveled rumble once more, “is your indestructibleness.”

Mace dropped the pliers back onto the table with a soft 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬, the sound resonating in the charged silence. His gaze, even through the impassive eyes of the skull mask, felt like a physical weight, analyzing, dissecting.

“Let’s see just how fragile a legend can be, shall we?” he whispered, a hint of genuine curiosity in his tone, a scientist on the verge of a groundbreaking, and utterly horrifying, discovery.

He didn't pick up the pliers again, nor did he reach for the scalpel. Instead, he simply stood, the tools of torment laid out behind him like an all-you-can-eat buffet, observing König with an unsettling stillness.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken threats and the chilling promise of what was to come. König’s breath hitched, his chest aching with the effort of control, his jaw still tender from Mace’s earlier grip.

He could feel the cold seep into his bones through the thin fabric of his clothes, the chains biting into his wrists, reminding him of his utterly helpless state. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to tense, ready to fight, but with nowhere to go, no target to strike. He was a predator caught in a snare, and the humiliation burned hotter than the fear.

Mace took a slow, deliberate step forward, then another, until he was once again directly in front of König. He knelt, not quite as close as before, but close enough for König to feel the oppressive weight of his presence. The bone-white mask, with its vacant eye-slits, seemed to bore into him, dissecting him piece by piece.

“Before we get to the… 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨,” Mace began, his voice a low, gravelly hum that resonated with a quiet intensity, “there’s a small matter of etiquette. A formality, you might say, that I have for you.”

He paused, the air crackling with an almost tangible anticipation. Mace’s head tilted slightly, a movement that, on anyone else, might be curious or thoughtful, but on him was profoundly unnerving. König could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.

“Tell me,” Mace continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, laced with an unsettling blend of politeness and barely contained malice, “what is your name?”

The question, so deceptively simple, hit König with the force of a physical blow. His mind reeled. 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨 That was his name. But he knew, with a glacial certainty, that wasn’t what Mace was asking. He was asking for the name behind the mask, the identity beneath the imposing persona. The name he had buried deep, a part of a life long-since abandoned.

He clamped his jaw shut, a stubborn refusal burning in his eyes. He wouldn’t break, not like this. He wouldn't give this man—this mocking reflection of Ghost—the satisfaction of stripping away that last, most sacred layer of himself.

A soft 𝘵𝘴𝘬 sound, identical to the earlier one, rumbled from Mace’s chest, tinged with a feigned disappointment. “Silent again? You know, for a man they call König—𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨—you’re remarkably quiet for royalty. It’s such a pity. It makes things… less efficient, you know.”

He leaned closer, the scent of ozone and blood more pronounced now, mingling with something else, something cloying and sweet that König couldn’t place, but instinctively recoiled from.

“After all, if you can’t even tell me something as fundamental as your own name,” Mace’s voice hardened, the low rumble taking on an edge of steel, “how will you ever tell me how long you’ve been a spy for 141?”

The accusation struck König like a lightning bolt. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp caught in his throat. 𝘚𝘱𝘺. For 141. The words echoed in his mind, a twisted distortion of the truth.

He 𝘩𝘢𝘥 walked away from KorTac, yes. He 𝘩𝘢𝘥 ended up working with 141, at least formally. But it wasn't for some strategic, cold-blooded betrayal. It was because he was assigned to them. And then again because of 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. Ghost. Soap. The men he so foolishly fell in love with. One of which whose phantom presence was so unsettlingly alive in Mace's every gesture, every stare.

A hot, bitter wave of defiance surged through König, warring with the icy grip of fear. He was not a spy. He was a loyal soldier turned fool. A fool who had allowed himself to be seen, truly seen, by men he should have been enemies with. A fool who had fallen, dangerously and irrevocably, for the very silent, phantom figure that Mace so cruelly mimicked.

The memory of Ghost’s scarce, genuine care, the quiet understanding in his gaze, the unexpected moments of shared humanity coupled with moments of Soap’s blinding smile and soft touches—they flooded König’s mind, a pitiful contrast to the sadistic spectacle before him.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working furiously under the taut skin. He tried to speak, to refute the vile lie, to scream the truth, or at least a version of it, anything to break this suffocating silence. But his throat was tight, constricted by a knot of terror and something else, something akin to a profound, heart-wrenching grief. The words caught, trapped behind the raw, burning sensation. He could only manage a choked, guttural sound, like a broken animal.

Mace seemed to relish the visible shock, the flicker of genuine outrage that crossed König’s features. A slow, almost imperceptible nod from the skull mask.

“Ah, there it is. A reaction. Good. We’re making progress.” He straightened up, his movements fluid and precise, a terrifying dance of power. He turned back to the table, his hand hovering over the instruments once more, as if debating which one to introduce first.

“You see, König,” Mace mused, his voice carrying clearly in the oppressive silence of the cell, “denial is the first whisper of truth. And we have a lot of whispering to do. Don’t you agree?”

His gloved fingers delicately brushed the cold, sharp tip of the scalpel.

“And we’ll start, not with grand revelations, but with simple, fundamental facts. Your name. Your mission. Your loyalty. And by the time we’re finished, König,” he picked up the scalpel, holding it aloft, the sterile gleam of its blade catching the dim light, “you won’t even remember which part of you is real, and which part is the legend you so desperately cling to.”

Mace turned back, a predatory calm in his posture. “So,” he said, his voice soft, almost gentle, “let’s try again, König. And let’s be honest with each other, shall we?” He took another step forward, the scalpel held loosely in his hand, not as a weapon, but as an extension of his will. “𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 is your name?”

König’s silence was a wall, thick and unyielding. The question hung in the air, potent and demanding, but no sound passed his lips. His jaw remained clenched, a testament to a will that, though battered, refused to break. He wouldn't give Mace the satisfaction, not yet. Not for a name that felt less like an identity and more like a wound, raw and exposed.

Mace's predatory calm held, but a subtle shift in his posture betrayed a flicker of impatience. His head tilted, the skull mask fixing König with an unblinking stare.

"Silence, then," he mused, his voice a silken thread, "is a response in itself. But not the one we're looking for, is it?"

Without another word, Mace’s left hand moved deliberately to König’s chest. The already battered, torn fabric of König’s shirt offered little resistance. With a sharp motion, the scalpel in Mace’s right hand sliced through the remaining threads, a clean cut from collarbone to sternum.

The air, already cold, seemed to bite as it met König’s skin. The tattered material fell away, revealing the expanse of his chest, bruised and marred from the previous brutality of the factory, but now laid bare for Mace’s new ministrations.

Mace’s gaze lingered for a moment, an artist appraising a blank canvas. “I’m going to keep a tally for every time you lie or ignore me, König,” he stated, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “We’ll make an honest man out of you in no time.”

He didn't wait for a response, nor did he expect one. The scalpel, still gleaming, descended. It wasn’t a quick, merciful cut, but a deliberate, shallow drag across König’s left pectoral, just beneath the prominent curve of his collarbone. A thin line of red welled up, stark against König’s pale skin.

König’s breath hissed through his gritted teeth. His muscles coiled, but he remained still, determined not to flinch, to show no further weakness. The pain was sharp, immediate, but he’d endured worse.

Mace lifted the blade slightly, then pressed down again, carving a second mark parallel to the first. This one was deeper, a more insistent invasion of his flesh. A choked, wounded sound, raw and involuntary, tore from König’s throat. It was less a scream and more a strangled gasp, born of an agony that vibrated through bone and nerve. He felt the sting, the hot trickle of blood, the tearing of tissue.

The third mark followed swiftly, a cruel mirror to the others. When Mace pulled the scalpel away, three distinct, angry red lines stood out on König’s chest, already beginning to swell and darken. Mace took a step back, his head cocked, admiring his handiwork with a chilling satisfaction. The slight tremor in his frame, almost imperceptible, suggested a thrill he barely contained. He was undoubtedly aiming for scars, permanent reminders of this session, and the thought seemed to delight him.

König’s gaze, heavy with a mixture of pain and defiance, didn't rise to meet Mace’s predatory stare. Instead, his eyes dropped, fixed on the fresh injuries. They were etched onto his left pectoral, directly over his heart. A bitter, ironic thought surfaced from the depths of his pain-addled mind, a whisper from his childhood: 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘶𝘧𝘴 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘻 𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦 𝘻𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘯.^[43]

A sharp 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱 cut through the oppressive silence, jarring König back to the present. Mace's fingers, gloved and dark, had just clapped together, a deliberate, attention-grabbing sound.

“König.” Mace’s voice, though firm, registered as a distant echo in König’s bleeding ears. He probably had been attempting to get König’s attention for a while.

König had gotten a little bit lost, adrift somewhere between the blunt-force trauma of a literal 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 collapsing on him and the sudden, vivid memories of Soap’s blinding smile and Ghost’s quiet presence. The fleeting images of their faces, their voices, their touches—they were a dangerous, comforting distraction in this living hell.

𝘛𝘺𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭, König thought to himself, the bitterness a sharp tang on his tongue. 𝘋𝘪𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰’𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶. He tried not to be bitter about his heart’s foolish, inconvenient decisions, about the way it had so recklessly attached itself to the very men he was now being accused of conspiring with. But he was. Bitter. Just a little. Enough to taint the edges of his grief with a flicker of resentment.

“König. Please try to pay attention.” The command was soft, but the underlying threat rippled through the air, promising worse if he continued to defy. “What is your name?”

Mace took an economical step closer, his shadow falling over König’s exposed chest. He didn't speak, simply waited, his head tilted, the skull mask an expressionless void. When König still didn't respond beyond a slight shudder of his shoulders, Mace’s right hand, still clutching the scalpel, moved. He didn't need to check his work; the previous cuts were already weeping crimson. With the same chilling precision, he began to add to them.

The blade dragged again, a fourth line, another question, another silence, then a fifth, each one parallel, each one a deliberate, agonizing etch. Some were shallow, stinging like a thousand bees, others pressed deeper, tearing sinew, the pain a hot, sizzling fire that made König’s vision swim. He felt the tremor in his own body, the desperate clench of his fists, fighting the urge to rip himself away.

He focused on a crack in the concrete floor, anywhere but the grim picture being painted on his skin. Each slice was a new tally mark, a fresh wound, a new reason to hate the man standing over him. Mace moved from left pectoral to right, then lower, closer to his sternum, marking him like a butcher scores meat.

Each pass of the blade was slow, drawing out the agony, the metallic tang of his own blood filling his nostrils. Twenty-eight new lines now crisscrossed his chest accompanied by an assortment of bruises and other gashes, a testament to his resilience over the past few days (weeks?). His skin was a landscape of red welts and weeping fissures, a brutal cartography of Mace’s growing impatience.

"Running out of canvas, König," Mace mused, his voice losing its silken quality, a hint of steel entering it. "I think it's about time we apply our tallies elsewhere. But first, what is your name?"

Silence.

The scalpel was briefly set aside. A coarse, rough hand clamped around the back of König's neck, forcing his head down. Before he could react, his face was being plunged into a bucket of rancid, icy water. The sudden shock stole his breath, the cold burning his lungs, stinging his eyes.

He thrashed, trying to pull away, but Mace’s grip was iron. The light fabric of his hood, usually a comforting shroud, instantly became a sodden, suffocating weight. It plastered itself to his face, clinging wetly, preventing any sliver of air from reaching his already deprived lungs.

The thick material, now saturated and heavy, pressed against his nose and mouth with even greater force than the water itself, making the already impossible act of breathing an agonizing, futile struggle. Water filled his nose, his mouth, forcing its way down his throat, a vile, metallic taste overwhelming him. His chest burned, his vision blurring, dark spots dancing at the edges of his sight.

He felt the frantic beat of his heart in his ears, a drum against the fading world. In that moment of absolute terror and physical agony, a wave of bitter resentment washed over König. His hood. His beloved hood, his identity, his shield against the world, was a weapon turned against him.

They knew.

KorTac knew what it meant to him, what it represented. It was his identity, his shield, the only thing that afforded him a semblance of anonymity, of safety. Now, it was a heavy, suffocating weight, an accomplice in his torment.

And 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 had allowed it to remain, not out of a twisted sense of mercy, but to mock him, to use his own symbol of strength as a tool of his undoing. It was a calculated insult, a mocking reminder that even his most guarded possession, his very persona, could be twisted and used against him by KorTac.

Just as darkness threatened to claim him, he was yanked back, gasping, choking, spitting fetid water onto the floor. His lungs burned, screaming for air, and he coughed, hacking until his throat was raw, tears streaming from his eyes.

The icy water, now clinging to every inch of his clothes and hair, sent shivers racking through his massive frame. He barely registered Mace’s calm voice, "I asked your name, König. And when I ask a question I’m sure you know by now I expect a response. So, 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 is your 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦?"

Silence. König’s ragged breaths were the only sound in the harsh, chilling room. He still didn’t speak, his jaw clenched, even as his body trembled uncontrollably. The thought of giving Mace the satisfaction of a response fueled a stubborn, defiant spark in his chest.

Then he was shoved back down again, a cruel repetition. This time, he lasted longer, his body fighting for survival even as his mind wanted to give in. And, once again, the hood became an immediate enemy, the water-logged fabric tightening, sealing him off from the precious air he craved.

He could feel the cold seeping deeper into his bones, a chilling ache that resonated with every beat of his frantic heart. He tried to twist, to thrash, but Mace was relentless, an unyielding force of nature.

The cycle continued, three more times, each descent into the murky depths more agonizing than the last. Each time he surfaced, he felt a little more broken, a little more drained. His throat was raw, his eyes bloodshot, and every breath was a painful effort. He was shivering uncontrollably, the cold seeping into his bones, down to his very marrow.

"Still not talking, 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨?" Mace asked, his voice now crisp, laced with an edge of irritation. He picked something up from a nearby table. A taser. König’s eyes, unfocused and wide, snapped to it. He knew what that meant. This was different from drowning; this was a pain that would seize him from the inside out.

Mace took a slow, deliberate step forward, the taser held loosely in his hand. The faint, high-pitched hum of it, almost imperceptible, was already a torment to König’s hypersensitive ears.

“Guess I have to try something different.” Another step forward. Another jolt of panic down König’s spine. “Last chance, König. Your name, what is it?"

König’s gaze remained fixed on the taser, then flickered to Mace’s mask—𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵’𝘴 mask. His silence was his answer, a silent defiance that cost him dearly. A sigh of theatrical disappointment escaped Mace’s lips. "Pity. You could have made this easy.”

The air crackled. Mace moved with shocking speed, pressing the prongs of the taser against the side of König’s exposed neck, just below his jawline. An incomprehensible, blinding jolt ripped through König’s body. Every muscle spasmed violently, his back arching, a guttural cry tearing from his throat, instantly cut short by the overwhelming current.

His vision exploded into a kaleidoscope of dancing lights and deepest black. His limbs flailed uncontrollably, his hands clenching into useless fists, his legs kicking out. The pain was absolute, consuming, making him forget the cold, the water, everything but the raw, electric agony coursing through his nerves.

He could smell ozone, that unique scent of burning flesh and electricity, and knew it was his own. His teeth clamped together so hard he thought his jaw would shatter, and a string of unconscious German curses bubbled up and died on his tongue. He was aware of the floor rushing towards him, then receding as his body convulsed, a puppet on a lightning string.

Just as the world threatened to shatter completely, the connection broke. Mace pulled the taser away, its hum fading. König collapsed, a heavy, dead weight into the restraints. His body continued to twitch erratically, muscles cramping and spasming long after the current had stopped.

He hung there, gasping, shaking, his entire being vibrating with residual trauma. The smell of ozone still clung to him, a bitter reminder of the electric hell he had just endured. His mind, battered and broken, struggled to form coherent thoughts.

Every breath was a monumental effort, his limbs felt like lead, and his entire body screamed in protest. He could feel bile rising in his throat, but he had nothing left to vomit—his stomach left hollow and empty from days without food.

Mace knelt beside him, his voice once more calm and devoid of his earlier irritation. "There we go, just breathe. You’re okay. Deep breath in—”

Before König could even register the lingering ache, the second jolt hit, a searing, explosive agony that ripped through his body. Every muscle seized, locking him rigid. His back arched uncontrollably, a guttural scream tearing from his throat, muffled by the sodden hood. It felt like every nerve ending was being set ablaze simultaneously, fire ants crawling beneath his skin, electricity dancing wildly through his veins.

Mace stepped back and König’s body followed as he fell forward, his shoulders popping with the pressure of his dead weight being held up by the chains. “—deep breath out.” Mace finished his sentence, his voice calm and barely heard over the ringing in König’s ears.

Mace watched him for a moment, his eyes seemingly filled with amusement before he spoke again. “That was a five-second burst. Nothing too exciting. I can go longer—target specific muscle groups. Or, we can go back to the water. I’m quite flexible, König.”

Mace’s voice was still disturbingly calm, almost conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. “Though, I do believe the taser is more… efficient. Especially with your little security blanket making it harder to breathe.” He gestured to the clinging hood, a cruel, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

König coughed, a dry, rasping sound, the taste of blood in his mouth. He tried to lift his head, to glare at Mace, but his neck muscles screamed in protest. He could only manage a slow, painful turn of his head, his bloodshot eyes fixated on the man looming over him. Defiance, though a flickering ember, still burned in those depths.

Mace sighed, a sound of disappointment. “Stubborn, aren’t we? Such a shame.” He knelt, his face inches from König’s. König could see the cold calculation in his eyes, the absolute lack of remorse. “Remember, deep breath in.” He held the taser up again, the low hum a dreadful confirmation. König’s eyes widened, a fresh wave of terror washing over him, mixing with the profound, bone-deep exhaustion.

He lasted through three more strikes. Each time, his body arched and contorted, his mind screaming in a silent, desperate agony and each time, a guttural scream clawed its way through his throat as his body seized.

He felt his bladder release at some point, a hot shame blossoming through his humiliation. When the last jolt ended, he hung limply, his head lolling, unresponsive, his body a quivering mess of nerve endings. Every muscle screamed, every joint ached. He didn't know if he could even move, let alone speak.

Mace let a moment pass, letting the full impact of the electrocution sink in. He circled König, his heavy boots thudding softly on the concrete. "We're making good progress," he murmured, his voice now laced with a detached cheerfulness that was far more terrifying than his anger. "Your body is certainly more communicative than your mouth."

He stopped in front of König, the skull mask unblinking. His hand moved, not with the taser this time, not with the scalpel, but with the pair of long, wicked-looking pliers. König's eyes widened, a fresh wave of primal fear washing over him. He knew what was coming.

"Let's see," Mace said, his voice matter-of-fact, as he took König’s right hand. "Three fingers, you know, a good number for three betrayals. The first being KorTac. Then to the 141 when you decided to follow through with your mission. And lastly, to yourself for being so damn stubborn.”

The first nail was seized, the serrated edge biting into the cuticle. König’s breath hitched, a strangled sound of protest. Mace didn't yank; he twisted, slowly, methodically, putting pressure on the nail bed. König’s vision swam, his head snapping back. The tearing sound was sickening, wet and sharp, echoing in the silence of the room. A guttural roar, raw and involuntary, tore from König’s lungs as the nail ripped free, leaving a bleeding, mangled mess. He tasted bile, his stomach lurching.

Then came the second, a mirror of the first, just as slow, just as agonizing. By the time Mace moved to the third, König was whimpering, a broken sound he barely recognised as his own. His hand was a bloody pulp, throbbing with unimaginable agony, nerve endings screaming. The pain was so intense it threatened to consume him, to drag him down into a merciful blackness.

Mace’s fingers, surprisingly delicate despite their brutal intent, found the base of the nail, pressing down before twisting. König’s body spasmed, a silent scream building in his throat as the tear began, slower, thicker this time, dragging the flesh with it. The third nail, like a rotten tooth, finally gave way with a wet tear, leaving a raw crater in its wake. Warm, sticky blood pulsed down his fingers, dripping onto the cold concrete floor.

But Mace wasn't done. He stepped back, observing his handiwork with a chilling satisfaction. "Good. Good. We're definitely getting somewhere." He then moved to König’s side, where the broken ribs from the factory collapse still knitted together in agony.

His gloved hand, surprisingly light, traced the swollen, purpled skin over König’s lower right rib cage. König flinched, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat, even that small movement sending a fresh wave of agony through him. Mace pressed a thumb into a particularly tender spot, just beneath the sternum. König’s entire body tensed, arching against the restraints, a silent scream clawing at his throat.

"Such a delicate structure, the rib cage, wouldn’t you agree?" Mace mused, his voice a low hum. "Holds so much in, doesn't it? Lungs, heart… secrets. Funny how easily it all shatters, much like loyalty, wouldn't you say?"

He withdrew his hand, then, without warning, brought the heel of his palm down with controlled, brutal force onto the precise spot he’d just tested. It wasn't a wild punch, but a focused, deliberate impact designed to inflict maximum localised damage. A sickening crack echoed in the small chamber, wet and resonant, a sound König felt reverberate deep within his chest.

A strangled, guttural cry tore from König, desperate and primal, his vision swimming, red spots dancing before his eyes. Air caught in his throat, a sharp pain lancing through his lungs with every attempt to draw breath. He choked, a thin stream of blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth as he struggled for air.

Mace repeated the blow. Another sickening crack. And again. Each strike aimed at a different, previously fractured or newly vulnerable point. König’s body spasmed violently, his head lolling, unresponsive, his breathing shallow, ragged, and punctuated by wet, rasping gasps.

Without warning, Mace’s knee connected with the side of his ribcage, a sharp, precise strike. König screamed, a ragged, desperate sound, as he felt the sickening 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 of cartilage, a new, sharper pain exploding through his chest. It felt as if a jagged shard of bone had punctured his lung.

He gasped, unable to draw a full breath, each inhale a fire that twisted and burned, threatening to tear his chest apart. Mace leaned in, pressing his gloved palm hard against the already fractured bones, deliberately pushing them further inward, grinding them against each other until König cried out, half-choking on the pain that vibrated through his entire body. It felt like his ribs were moments from snapping clean off, severing him from his own torso.

For a split, disorienting second, the agony wasn't Mace’s doing. It was a familiar, crushing blow, the acrid scent of stale beer and cheap cigarettes suddenly filling his nostrils.

The front door was splintered, just like his mother’s spirit. The man, a hulking shadow of rage, stood over his younger brother, Matthias, who was curled into a trembling ball on the floor. Matthias, small and fragile, with eyes too wide and afraid. König, barely a teenager himself, had lunged, a desperate, clumsy shield. “No! Leave him alone!”

The first blow, a heavy boot to his side, had winded him, stealing his breath. He remembered the dull thud, the sharp, fiery pain that radiated through his ribs. Not a crack, not yet, but a bruise that would bloom a vicious purple by morning.

He’d coughed, choked on the dust and the metallic tang of fear, but he hadn’t moved. He 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵. Matthias whimpered behind him, a sound König would forever associate with helplessness.

"You little bastard, you think you're tough? You think you can 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 him?" the man had snarled, his voice thick with liquor and menace. A fist, heavy and calloused, had connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

Stars exploded behind his eyes. He’d tasted blood, hot and coppery, but the pain had grounded him, kept him rooted between the monster and his brother. He remembered the man’s foot connecting again, harder this time, right in the same spot, a sickening crunch that had made König gasp, the air tearing from his lungs.

He wanted to cry out, to beg, but Matthias was there, terrified and watching. He had to be strong. He had to absorb it all.

"You're nothing!" the man had roared, the words echoing in the cramped, squalid apartment, each one a hammer blow to König's developing soul. "A useless, worthless burden!" König had felt the sharp, exquisite agony of a broken rib, a jagged spear of pain that made every shallow breath a struggle. But Matthias was safe, for now. That was all that mattered. He was the shield, the sponge, designed to soak up all the ugliness so that others might be spared.

The memory shattered, dissolving into the white-hot agony of the present. The splintered door, the angry shouts, 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘢𝘴’ terrified whimpers—all were swallowed by the immediate, overwhelming reality of Mace’s presence.

The pain in his ribs was no longer a dull ache; it was a screaming inferno, mirroring the past, yet brutally fresh. He gasped, unable to draw a full breath, each inhale a fire that twisted and burned, threatening to tear his chest apart.

He felt liquid warmth spread beneath him—more urine, a final, humiliating loss of control. He was a broken thing, utterly at Mace’s mercy, his mind scrambling for a merciful oblivion that refused to come.

Mace paused, allowing König to writhe, to taste the metallic tang of internal bleeding on his tongue. He took a slow, deep breath, as if savouring the moment. "Still quiet, 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨?" he purred, his voice losing its detached cheerfulness, replaced by an unnerving anticipation.

He bent closer, his skull mask inches from König’s face. He brought a hand to König’s left pectoral, fingertips grazing across the skin. "I will admit it’s almost honorable how long you’ve stayed silent. Your chest is a book of your resilience, but we discussed applying our tallies elsewhere, didn't we? And so far, your face remains… untouched."

He straightened, his gaze fixed on König’s slack jaw, then on the few teeth that showed through his open blood-flecked lips and torn mask. From a side table, Mace picked up a small, gleaming instrument. It looked like a miniature, hand-cranked dental drill, its tip ending in a fine, serrated burr.

König’s eyes, wide and unfocused, nevertheless registered the wicked glint of the metal, and a fresh wave of terror, cold and absolute, washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the agony in his ribs and hand.

"Most say a man’s silence is a sign of strength. Me? I say a man's silence is often his last defence," Mace continued, turning the drill idly in his hand, the small gears whirring softly. "And sometimes, that silence needs… persuasion. Sometimes, it needs to be 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 in order for any progress to be made."

He set the drill down for a moment, and his hand clamped around König's jaw, forcing his mouth open with surprising strength. König gagged, struggling weakly against the iron grip, his already raw throat protesting. Mace's thumb pressed down on König's lower lip, exposing his teeth. His eyes, devoid of emotion behind the mask, settled on a molar, slightly chipped from a past encounter.

"This one," Mace declared, as if choosing a fine cut of meat. He picked up the drill. The low whirring sound intensified as he began to crank it. König whimpered, a desperate, animalistic sound, his eyes squeezed shut.

The first touch of the burr was unbearable. Not a jab, but a grinding pressure against the enamel. A high-pitched screech, like metal on bone, filled the small room, mingling with the sickening smell of burning tooth and tissue.

König’s body convulsed, his legs thrashing against the floor, a strangled sound of agony caught in his throat. The nerve, raw and exposed, screamed in protest, a searing, electric pain that shot through his skull, eclipsing even the agony of his mangled hand and fractured ribs. The chains bit into his skin, tearing through his skin tissue until a stream of crimson began to trickle down his arms in a mini river, and yet, all König could feel was the destruction of his mouth.

Mace worked slowly, methodically. He wasn't trying to rip the tooth out, but to 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺 it, to grind it down to nothing. Each movement of the burr sent a fresh wave of excruciating pain through König, a pain so profound it felt as if his very brain was being drilled.

Blood welled up, mixing with saliva and the fetid water still clinging to his mouth, dripping down his chin. He tasted ash, burning bone, and the sharp tang of his own raw nerves. He couldn't scream, couldn't even breathe properly, merely making choked, desperate sounds, his body fighting a silent, losing battle.

After what felt like an eternity, the grinding stopped. Mace pulled the drill away, its tip stained crimson. König’s jaw hung slack, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His chosen tooth was no more than a jagged, bleeding stump, a raw crater of exposed pulp and nerve.

His body felt like a live wire, every nerve ending screaming in protest, every muscle trembling uncontrollably.

He hung there, a broken, bleeding, tattered wreck, his body screaming, his mind fractured. The pride, that stubborn, foolish pride that had kept his jaw clenched, that had sealed his lips, began to crumble under the relentless onslaught.

It wasn't about defiance anymore. It was about survival. No, not survival. That was too hopeful a word. It was about 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵. König was done. He was tired of the pain, the ceaseless agony, the screaming nerves, the burning lungs, the throbbing, mutilated flesh.

He was tired of fighting.

Tired of hurting.

Tired of living.

Tired of feeling guilty.

He had betrayed KorTac, a faction not known for kindness, and betrayed 141, the only place he could ever say he felt he truly belonged, even a little bit. He had taken countless lives and abandoned his own flesh and blood, leaving them to rot. He was not a saint—only a sinner. One the universe has spit on at every turn.

So, yeah—he wasn't really holding out for a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow right now. No one was coming to save him. He had no family, certainly no friends. Not a soul alive cared if he lived, including himself.

He was tired of all the pain and constant fighting. He was tired of fucking up, of being miserable. Even if he grovelled and begged for forgiveness, there’d be no point. He was done. Ready to pass on and be free from the pain, torture, screams, and guilt of all his mistakes.

He was always a burden on this world, and it was time he left. He had stayed silent for one reason: pride. A fucked up sense of pride was all that kept him fighting. He at least wanted to go out with some dignity, and in this situation, the only dignity he could get was not giving in.

But even that was a battle lost. The thirst for oblivion, the desperate need for 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦, was overwhelming that last, pathetic shred of stubbornness. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted to die. And if talking was the only way to facilitate that… then so be it. His silence had bought him nothing but endless torment. Perhaps words would bring him the final, blessed release. His broken body shuddered, a long, drawn-out tremor.

Mace wiped the burr with a cloth, then tossed the tool back onto the table with a clink. He circled König once more, his boots thudding softly, the silence of the room punctuated only by König’s ragged, wet breathing.

"Still unwilling to speak your name, or your transgressions, König?" Mace asked, his voice low, almost contemplative. He paused, then, observing König closely, he titled his head. "Or are we ready to talk now?" he asked, his voice softening, a predator sensing the kill.

König's head lifted fractionally, his eyes, blurred with tears and pain, met the unblinking stare of the skull mask. He inhaled, a shallow, rattling breath that sent a fresh wave of agony through his broken ribs.

The words scraped raw out of his throat, hoarse and barely audible, more a plea than an answer. He wasn’t giving Mace what he wanted, not truly. He was just reaching for an end.

"Ja," König whispered, the single syllable a profound surrender, not to Mace, but to the sweet, beckoning darkness. "Ja. I will talk."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air in the small, dimly lit pub hummed with an electric tension that had nothing to do with faulty wiring. It was a tangible thing, thick as the stale cigarette smoke that clung to the walls, emanating from the three men gathered together.

Horangi sat stiffly at the scratched wooden table, his posture betraying a carefully controlled anxiety. Across from him, Soap’s face was a mask of suspicious skepticism, while Ghost, a silent, menacing shadow, seemed to absorb all the light in the room, making the shadows deepen around him.

"I know you two have questions," Horangi began, his voice low, a deliberate attempt at conciliation in the face of such open hostility. "And I know you have no reason to trust me. But what I am about to show you… it changes everything."

Soap’s hand twitched, a nervous tremor, hovering over the darkened screen of the tablet that lay between them. His eyes, usually so expressive, were narrowed to wary slits. "If this is another one o' yer KorTac schemes, Horangi, I swear tae God…"

"It's not," Horangi cut him off, his voice sharper now, a thread of impatience, and perhaps desperation, woven into it. The accusation, no matter how expected, still pricked at him. "This is about König."

At the mention of the name, Ghost’s eyes narrowed behind his balaclava, twin pinpricks of icy focus. His hand, resting on the table, clenched into a fist, the knuckles turning stark white as bone.

Horangi fought back the need to visibly tense, to flinch from the sudden surge of raw violence he could feel radiating off the masked man. The action, Ghost’s silent, immediate threat display, ripped a fresh memory from the raw edges of Horangi’s mind, pulling him back to just a few minutes ago.

He could still feel the phantom weight, the crushing pressure where Ghost’s arm had rested against his throat, pinning him to the wall with terrifying ease. One moment, he had been attempting to explain his presence, the next, Ghost was there, a blur of dark tactical gear, a silent, deadly whirlwind.

There had been no warning, no shouted command, just the sudden, bone-jarring impact of his back against the wall, the air driven from his lungs in a ragged gasp as that massive forearm locked against his windpipe.

He had struggled, primal instinct screaming at him to fight, but Ghost had held him impossibly still, every ounce of his massive weight pressing him flat. The wall behind him had been cold, unforgiving, mirroring the chill that had spread through his own veins.

He'd felt the oxygen draining from his lungs, his vision dimming, a high-pitched ringing starting in his ears. In that moment, suspended between consciousness and oblivion, Horangi had seen the shift in Ghost’s eyes, even through the balaclava’s mesh—not just anger, but a deep, cold, almost predatory fury that spoke of long-held grudges and a frightening capability for brutality shone through. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭, Horangi had thought, struggling for air, 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴.

The sheer, overwhelming power of Ghost, the casual way he’d manhandled him, had burned itself into Horangi’s perception. He hadn't been able to help an involuntary shiver then, and the lingering sense of vulnerability persisted now, despite the table between them.

"Wha’ about him?” Ghost asked, his voice low, a dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. It was devoid of venom, yet sharp enough to cut. “The last we saw, he was trapped in a collapsing factory, an’ I don’t know where you're from but for me, most people don’ survive tha’.”

Horangi said nothing. Explanations were futile. He couldn't blame them for their skepticism, for their belief that König was lost. He simply pushed the tablet closer, sliding it across the worn wooden surface until it stopped just short of Soap's hand.

Soap, his curiosity warring fiercely with his deeply ingrained caution and distrust, finally snatched it open. His thumb automatically swiped across the screen, illuminating it with a soft, blue-white glow. He glanced at the first image, a low, choked sound escaping his throat, then froze, his hand stilling completely.

His eyes widened, a quiet, disbelieving gasp escaping his lips. The shock on his face was absolute, a dawning horror mixed with something else Horangi couldn't quite decipher from this distance.

Without a word, Soap pushed the tablet towards Ghost, the movement almost an unconscious reflex. Ghost took it, his movements slow and deliberate, the controlled motions of a man perpetually ready for a trap.

As his gloved fingers wrapped around the device, the stark glow of the screen reflected in the dark chasms of his mask, hinting at the shocking revelation about to unfold.

The first picture showed an overhead shot, sickeningly clear. A figure hung from chains, arms stretched taut above its head, bare skin a canvas of purple and black. It was difficult to make out the features, but the sheer, brutal 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 of the posture, the unnatural angle of the limbs, made Ghost’s stomach clench. He flipped to the next, having to know if it was true. If this was König.

The image was closer this time.

König hung there, a broken wreck against a backdrop of shadowed stone. His skin, a mottled canvas of purple and black, was flayed in places, revealing raw, weeping flesh. Blood, dried and fresh, stained the tattered remains of his clothing. His face, if it could even be called that, was swollen beyond recognition, one eye a pulpy mess, the other a bloodshot, vacant stare almost completely hidden under a familiar fabric.

It was an unmistakable cloth, standing out amidst the disfigurement. The mask, the 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥, was barely there. Ripped to shreds and yet still clinging to König like a second skin. Bone-deep terror and agony were etched into every tortured line of his body, even in the stillness of the photograph.

"Christ," Ghost whispered, a sick feeling crawling under his skin.

He exchanged a quick glance with Soap, whose usually easily readable face betrayed nothing outwardly, but Ghost could feel the change in his presence, a sudden, sharp intake of breath.

Another picture, closer, showed König’s hands, twisted and mangled, fingernails clearly ripped away. Then another, this time of his legs, housing deeply lacerated thighs; next his chest, a shattered ribcage clearly visible beneath torn skin; and lastly a raw, red patch on his back where a whip had flayed the flesh.

The sheer, deliberate cruelty of it was monstrous. It wasn't just pain; it was an active, prolonged dismantling of a human being.

“As you can see,” Horangi’s voice was low, strained, “König is… still alive.”

The words, so simple, were a fresh shock. Alive? After 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵? It seemed impossible.

Soap and Ghost, who had been regarding Horangi with a deadly suspicion—a cold, hard distrust born from a past where allegiances had twisted and bled—continued to stare down at the encrypted tablet, their world shattering at the images shown.

The tablet held everything that had happened to König in the past couple of months since his assumed death, and it was… there were no words.

What they saw erased the bar, the city, even Horangi himself from their perception. It was König. Or what was left of him. But it wasn’t at the same time.

Soap felt a wave of nausea claw at his throat. His stomach churned as if he’d swallowed acid. He swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the images, unable to tear away. The silent giant, the man who had once cared for them with such unexpected tenderness, whose quiet intensity had both intrigued and captivated him, was reduced to this. This mangled, bleeding, 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 thing.

Ghost, usually unshakeable in composure, fractured. His gloved hand, resting on the table, clenched so tightly his skin nearly pierced under the pressure of his nails. He leaned forward, his eyes, dark and piercing through the mask, fixed on the screen as if trying to burn the images into his memory, or perhaps, to incinerate them from existence.

His mind reeled, denying what his eyes were seeing. This couldn't be König. König was… dealt with. Gone. They’d moved on, or tried to. But the evidence was undeniable.

The distinctive build, even contorted, the faint scar peeking from under a shredded sleeve—it was him. A terrible, sickening recognition bloomed in Ghost’s chest, a mix of horror and a faint, almost unbearable ache. The anger he’d held onto, the bitterness over König’s betrayal turned to sacrifice, began to warp, twisting into something he couldn't even describe.

The bar’s low hum faded completely, replaced by the ringing in their ears, the frantic beat of their own hearts. They didn’t speak, couldn’t. The sheer brutality of the images held them captive, forcing them to confront a reality far more hideous than anything they had imagined.

Ghost and Soap remembered the misunderstanding, the impossible choices, the chaos that had ripped them apart. König, caught between his old loyalties and the burgeoning, complex feelings he’d developed for them, had made a choice that cost him everything. He had betrayed KorTac to save 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. And now, he was paying the price.

Horangi watched them, his expression unreadable. He waited, letting the images do their work, letting the raw truth sink in. Finally, when the silence had stretched to an unbearable tension, he spoke, his voice low and steady. “I know it's a lot to take in, but this is the truth. König never died.”

More minutes crawled by, heavy with the weight of the revelation. Soap’s jaw was clenched, his knuckles white against the table. Ghost's face, partially obscured by his balaclava, was a mask of grim disbelief.

He took in a slow, ragged breath, pulling himself back from the brink of the abyss the pictures had opened. His gaze, sharp and piercing, finally lifted from the gruesome display to meet Horangi’s.

“Why should we trust you, Horangi?” Ghost’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet laced with a dangerous edge. “You’re KorTac. You were part o’ the whole bloody mess that led to this. Why come to us now, after everythin’?”

Horangi didn't flinch. His gaze held steady. “Because despite everything, König is still my best friend. He’s like family to me. And seeing what dey’re doing to him…” He trailed off, a flicker of raw pain in his eyes. “I can’t just stand by. I 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 to do something. And you two are de only ones I can turn to. You know KorTac. You know how they operate. But you also know… 𝘩𝘪𝘮."

He paused, his gaze pleading between Soap and Ghost. "So are you going to help me or not? I know you two grew close to him during his time at the 141. Did it really mean nothing? Because it meant something to König. Believe me, it did. And if even a small part of you still cares, then help me, please. Before it’s too late."

Soap and Ghost remained silent, locked in a silent battle with themselves. The images on the tablet screamed at them, demanding a response. The memories König had left behind, both good and bad, resurfaced with excruciating clarity.

The love, the betrayal, the guilt. They had written him off, buried him, tried to forget. But now, here he was, still suffering, still paying the price for a choice he’d made to save them.

The weight of it was suffocating. Their past, their professional protocols, their lingering anger, warred with a primal, gut-wrenching need to alleviate the horror they had just witnessed. To have König 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Soap’s gaze flickered from the tortured images to Horangi's pleading eyes. His face was pale, his expression grim and resolute. His accent, usually light, was thick with a new, somber determination.

“Just tell me wha’ we ave’ tae do.”

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not.”

The words, clipped and final, resonated through the room like a death toll. Ghost, who’d had his arms crossed, eyes fixed on Price as his stare bled into Price’s very soul, posture stiffened further, a predatory tension settling into his broad frame. Soap’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around the tablet. The same tablet Horangi had given them in order to prove König was alive.

The smoky hum of the bar, the clink of glasses, the very air that had suffocated them with König’s suffering, was miles away now. Soap and Ghost stood before Price as Soap, voice low and tight, recounted Horangi’s desperate plea and the horrifying evidence that accompanied it. As he begged Price to let them help.

“Price, ye dinnae understand,” Soap began, his voice strained with suppressed fury.

“I understand perfectly, MacTavish,” Price cut him off, his tone unyielding. “You walk into a bar, meet with a known KorTac operative—an enemy, Soap—and he spins you a yarn, shows you some doctored images, an’ suddenly you’re ready to mount a rescue op for… for someone who was, by all accounts, dealt with. Someone who betrayed us.” His eyes, usually warm, were like flint. “Who, in the eyes of the brass, is still very much an enemy.”

“Doctored images?!” Soap exploded, the carefully constructed calm shattering. He thrust the tablet forward, the screen flaring with a particularly gruesome still image. “Ye’re tellin’ me this is doctored, Captain? Look at ‘im! Ye think Horangi can fake a man bein’ flayed alive bit by bloody bit?!” His voice cracked, raw emotion lacing every word. “This isn’t some yarn! This is König! And he’s sufferin’ because he chose us! He chose 𝘮𝘦!”

Price pushed back from his desk, rising to his full height. “An’ wha’ about the countless others he was willing to sacrifice before tha’? He crossed lines, Soap. An’ lets not forget he betrayed us 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 he betrayed his own to save you two. Higher command, the brass, they see him as a liability, a loose end. An’ Horangi, for Christ’s sake! He’s the enemy!”

Price slammed a fist lightly on the desk, the sound sharp in the charged silence.

‘You’d trust him? 𝘏𝘪𝘮, of all people, to tell you the truth? We operate on facts, Soap, not on emotional appeals from a man who, let’s not forget, was complicit in the very operations that pitted us against König in the first place!”

“Complicit? Horangi’s risking his life comin’ to us! He’s asking for our help because he knows what he’s seein’ is wrong!” Soap was yelling now, his face flushed with a mix of rage and despair. “And d’ye think I give a shite ‘bout protocols right now? About ‘higher-ups’ and ‘brass’? My career is already hangin’ by a thread with how… how I’ve been since… since we thought he was gone! 𝙔𝙤𝙪 made tha’ pretty damn clear! I don’t give a damn if it’s over, Price! I’m not gonna stand by an’ let König be massacred after wha’ he did for us!”

“Easy, Johnny.” Ghost mumbled and shifted, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough. His gloved hand came to rest on Soap’s shoulder, a silent anchor. The pressure was firm, a wordless promise of backing.

His eyes, dark chasms through the balaclava, were fixed on Price, unwavering, mirroring Soap’s resolve with an intensity that spoke of unspoken threats. His very presence screamed that he was in this with Soap, every step of the way, no matter the cost.

Price’s gaze hardened, meeting Ghost’s silent challenge. “An’ what about you, Ghost? You’re in on this suicidal ideation too? You’re willing to throw it all away for an enemy combatant?”

Ghost’s voice, when it came, was a low growl, devoid of any inflection, yet sharper than any shouted word. “He saved our lives. He’s one o’ us, Price. Or he was, when it mattered.”

The air crackled, the unspoken history between the three men a palpable force. Price saw the unwavering conviction in their eyes, the stubborn loyalty that, while admirable, threatened to derail everything.

It wasn’t just about König, he knew that; it was about their moral compass, about the unspoken thing that had formed between König, Ghost, and Soap—however twisted the circumstances. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly.

“Look, lads,” Price said, his voice dropping, an attempt to reason now that anger hadn’t worked. “I understand your sentiment. Believe me, I do. But you’re talkin’ ‘bout a black-ops breach into enemy territory based on the word of a man we cannot trust, to recover a target who, again, is an enemy combatant. If this goes south, if we’re caught, it’s not just your careers on the line. It’s the entire Task Force. It’s an international incident tha’ could unravel years of covert operations. I can’t just—”

“You can’t just let him die!” Soap roared, cutting him off, the raw agony in his voice silencing even Price. “He gave us a chance, he gave 𝘮𝘦 a chance when he didn’t ave’ to! He sacrificed himself to get us—𝘮𝘦 out! How the hell can we live with ourselves if we leave him to that?!” He gestured wildly at the tablet.

The air crackled with the tense standoff, the impassioned plea hanging heavy. Price opened his mouth to reply, frustration etched on his face, when a voice from the doorway cut through the charged atmosphere.

“C’mon, John, surely bending the rules a little won’t hurt.”

The new voice cut through the heated air like a frigid blade, sharp and unexpected. Price, Soap, and Ghost all spun towards the doorway, their hands instinctively dropping to their weapons. Kate Laswell stood there, her expression calm, a slight, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She held a tablet of her own, the screen dark.

“Laswell?” Price blurted, genuinely taken aback. “What are you doin’ ere’? How…?”

Laswell merely walked further into the room, her gaze sweeping over the tense trio before settling on Horangi’s tablet still on Price’s desk. “I believe the question is, what are 𝘺𝘰𝘶 doing here, John? Or rather, what were you 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 to do?” She picked up the tablet, her eyes briefly scanning the gruesome images. “Horangi was very thorough. Good man.”

“Kate…” Price started.

Laswell offered a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. “C’mon, John. You honestly think I don’t have eyes and ears everywhere? Or that I wasn’t aware of Sergeant MacTavish and Ghost’s little ‘secret’ meeting with KorTac? I’ve been running parallel research since I caught wind of the possibility König survived.”

She looked from Soap to Ghost, her gaze lingering on the image on the tablet. “And I can confirm, the information Horangi relayed to you is accurate. König is alive.”

She turned, meeting Price’s bewildered stare. “And frankly, John, it would be a wise decision to get him back.”

A wave of relief, potent and almost dizzying, washed over Soap and Ghost. They both exchanged a quick glance, a silent understanding passing between them. Laswell was giving Price an out, wrapping their impossible, emotional mission in a cloak of strategic necessity.

“Why, Laswell?” Price asked, skepticism still etched on his face. “Aside from the obvious sentimentality?”

“Because,” Laswell continued, stepping closer, her voice now crisp and authoritative, “it’s a wise decision to get him back not just because in the end, he did try to save Soap and Ghost, though that counts for something. But König was a lieutenant in KorTac. He was privy to their operations, their command structure, their intelligence. He’s a walking, breathing treasure trove of actionable intel, John. Something that command would be 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 interested in having. KorTac plans to torture him, extract whatever they can, then kill him. That intel is far too valuable to let go to waste.”

Her gaze hardened, shifting briefly to Soap and Ghost, a silent acknowledgment of the real, unsaid reason. “And let’s not forget, König spent time embedded with the 141. He knows our protocols, our vulnerabilities, our callsigns, our 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦. There’s no telling what information he might have gathered, even inadvertently. It’s in everyone’s best interest that we retrieve him before KorTac breaks him completely and those secrets spill. Or worse, before they decide to turn him into an asset against us.”

Soap and Ghost exchanged a quick glance. They saw through Laswell’s expertly crafted rationale. While the strategic points were valid, the underlying message was clear: she was giving them the green light for a risky, ethically grey mission, essentially saving Price from having to make the impossible call himself. It was a calculated move, not just to protect the Task Force, but to acknowledge the desperate loyalty König had shown, and to prevent the fracturing of Price’s own team.

Price stared at Laswell, then at Soap and Ghost, a slow understanding dawning in his eyes. He saw the determination, the renewed hope, and the absolute conviction that this was the right path. He also understood the angle Laswell was playing.

“Right then,” Price sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, the fight draining from him, replaced by a weary resignation. “Say we go along with this… madness. How the hell do we even pull off a rescue mission against KorTac, for a high-value prisoner, no less? It’s a suicide run, pure an’ simple, even with your intel.”

Laswell’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. “Oh, don’t worry about the how, John. I’ve already made some calls.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The biting wind whipped across the helipad atop the 141 base, tugging at the tactical gear of the waiting figures. Price stood with his arms crossed, the brim of his boonie hat pulled low against the gusts, his gaze fixed on the darkening horizon. Beside him, Soap shuffled his feet, a nervous energy thrumming beneath his usually jovial exterior.

Ghost, ever the stoic sentinel, was a dark silhouette against the fading light, his posture rigid, eyes scanning the empty sky. Gaz and Roach stood a little apart, their mouths shut in anticipation. Laswell, however, remained perfectly still, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, an almost serene expression on her face. She was listening, not watching. The distant thrum of rotor blades grew steadily louder, a growing crescendo against the urban hum of the city below.

“Hold tight,” Laswell’s voice cut through the wind, her eyes locked on the approaching silhouette.

A heavy, twin-engine transport helicopter, its black frame silhouetted against the bruised sky, began its descent. The downdraft lashed at their clothes, and the whine of the turbines intensified, rattling the rooftop. With a final, controlled shudder, the massive bird settled onto the reinforced landing zone, its ramps slowly lowering with a hiss of hydraulics.

The first figure to emerge was unmistakable. Alejandro Vargas, his stoic face etched with a familiar blend of resolve and quiet power, stepped out into the swirling wind, followed closely by his loyal second-in-command, Rodolfo Parra. Both wore their distinctive Vaquero-style gear, looking as ready for a fight as ever.

Price’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as Alejandro’s gaze met his, a brief, shared nod of respect passing between the two commanders.

“Alejandro, Rudy,” Laswell greeted, her voice carrying over the dying roar of the rotors. “It was kind of you to make it.”

Alejandro’s lips curved into a genuine smile as he advanced, his hand extended to Laswell, then to Price. “Laswell, mi Capitán. It is my pleasure. After everything Task Force 141 has done for us, for Las Vargas… it is the least we can do.” He paused, nodding to the rest of the team. “Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Roach. Always a pleasure.”

Rodolfo offered a simpler, equally heartfelt nod and a quick salute. “It's been awhile everyone, glad to see you all again.”

Laswell lightly sighed, a relieved smile gracing her features. “Even so, thank you both for coming on such short notice. This means a great deal.”

Alejandro’s gaze was unwavering. “After everything the 141 has done for us, it is our pleasure. Truly. When you called, there was no question.”

Price simply grunted, then turned to Laswell, a wry half-smirk tugging at his lips. “So, this is wha’ you meant by ‘made some calls,’ eh, Kate?”

Laswell’s smirk deepened. “They’re certainly good soldiers, John, among the very best I know. But no,” she paused, a glint in her eyes, "even with the Vaqueros, it won’t be enough. The cavalry isn’t complete just yet.”

As if on cue, a second, smaller helicopter, a nimble attack variant, was already banking in the distance, its rotors a distinct, higher-pitched chop. It was sleek, dark, and moved with a predatory grace. It touched down a mere fifty feet from the first, its side door already sliding open before it had fully settled. The air thrummed with the fading throb of its engines, mixing with the heavier beat of the larger transport choppers.

From within its cavernous belly emerged two more familiar faces: a woman stepped out first, her movements fluid and decisive. Farah Karim. Her long black hair, an ink-dark cascade that reached her mid-back, was pulled back in a tight, practical braid, secured by a plain headband, keeping it clear of her sharp, intelligent features. Her eyes, the color of rich earth—deep brown—were piercing, assessing everything at a glance and missing nothing. Her frame, while lean and athletic, spoke of compact strength rather than raw bulk, a testament to years of disciplined training and movement through harsh environments.

Hot on her heels was a figure equally familiar, if more surprising: Alex Keller. He moved with a practiced, almost seamless grace, despite the slight, almost imperceptible hesitation in his left leg—the gleaming, advanced prosthetic a stark testament to past sacrifices. He was tall, with a broad-shouldered, athletic build that filled out his tactical gear.

His light brown hair, trimmed short but with enough length to show its natural wave, was offset by a well-maintained beard that framed a face etched with purpose and experience. His vibrant blue eyes, keen and alert, scanned the assembly, missing nothing. Beneath the rolled sleeves of his combat shirt, intricate sleeve tattoos, a swirling tapestry of darker ink, peeked out on both powerful, athletic arms, hinting at countless stories etched into his skin.

“Farah! Alex!” Price boomed, his earlier weariness giving way to genuine joy that softened the hardened lines of his face. He clapped Alex on the shoulder, the sound echoing lightly, then pulled Farah into a brief, respectful embrace. Soap, Roach and Gaz were quick to follow, their faces alight with the unexpected reunion of old comrades. Even Ghost, ever stoic, offered a nod of respect to both, which was returned in kind by Farah’s steady gaze and Alex’s firm nod.

“It’s good to see you all,” Farah said, her voice calm but firm. “Heard you were getting into some trouble.”

“Always, love, always,” Price chuckled, but his eyes were already flicking between the two new groups. The best of the best, all answering the call.

Alejandro and Rodolfo, who had been observing the new arrivals with respectful curiosity, now stepped forward.

Laswell, ever the most quick to respond, made the introductions, her voice crisp and professional. “Alejandro, Rodolfo, this is Farah Karim, commander of the Urzikstani Liberation Force, and Alex Keller, one of our key assets. Farah, Alex, these are Colonel Alejandro Vargas and Sergeant Rodolfo Parra of the Vaqueros. Some of the finest soldiers I’ve ever had the privilege to work with.”

Alejandro offered a respectful nod and a firm handshake to Farah. “A pleasure to meet you both. Your reputations precede you.”

Farah returned the firm handshake, her gaze assessing, taking in the Colonel’s disciplined bearing. “A pleasure indeed, Laswell speaks highly of you.”

Alex nodded in response, his expression serious, his blue eyes studying the Vaqueros with a quiet intensity. “Likewise.”

Alejandro gestured vaguely at the two massive helicopters now idling on the pad. “Though it is good to meet you both, given the sensitive nature of… everything, perhaps we should take this meeting somewhere more private?” He gestured towards the door leading into the base.

Everyone seemed to agree, nodding and turning to head for the access hatch leading into the base. But Laswell held up a hand, a subtle command that halted them all. “Not yet, Alejandro. We’re still waiting on someone.”

Gaz blinked, his brows shooting up in surprise. “One more? Laswell, who else did you manage to drag into this, besides the entire bloody Avengers?”

Before Laswell could reply, the distant, unmistakable sound of a third helicopter, larger than the second but smaller than the first, began to fill the air. It was an older, heavier transport, its engines humming with a distinct, rugged efficiency that spoke of tireless labor rather than sleek design.

It approached from the north, its paint scheme nondescript, a dull grey lacking any military insignia, designed for blending into the background. It landed smoothly, precisely, directly in front of the assembled group, kicking up a whirl of dust and debris before its rotors slowly began to wind down.

The pilot’s door opened, and a truly massive bear of a man, wide-shouldered and powerfully built, clambered out, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. The one and only Nikolai. His long black hair, slicked back from his broad forehead and reaching just below his ears, gleamed faintly in the harsh light. A light, well-kept beard, accompanied by slim sideburns, framed his familiar, kind face, which now broke into a wide, disarming grin. His presence radiated an almost comical earthiness and rugged competence, a stark contrast to the honed, almost predatory precision of the elite operators around him.

“Nikolai!” Price’s gruff voice held warmth, a genuine fondness for the burly Russian. Soap and Gaz grinned, relief washing over them at the sight of their old friend. Gaz chuckled, his frame becoming lighter as his eyes took in Nikolai. Even Ghost seemed to relax a fraction, the remaining tension in his shoulders easing almost imperceptibly. Alejandro and Rodolfo, unfamiliar with the Russian operator, exchanged curious glances, silently assessing the newest arrival.

Nikolai stretched, his large frame cracking audibly, then walked towards them, his movements unhurried, almost ponderous, yet utterly confident. He looked at Laswell, a weary but familiar smirk on his face.

“Every time, Laswell. Every time you call, only big trouble. Big, stupid problems, da?” His English was heavily accented, clipped, and slightly choppy, a testament to his native tongue. He shook his head slowly. “One time, you call just for vodka, eh? Or maybe beer.”

Laswell chuckled, a rare, genuine sound that softened her steely demeanor. “And what fun would that be, Nik? Now, did you manage to bring him?”

Soap, Roach, and Gaz exchanged confused glances while Ghost became more alert.

“Bring who?” Price asked, a new tension subtly tightening his jaw, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.

Nikolai’s grin widened, a knowing, almost mischievous glint in his eyes. “Of course, Kate. Who do you think I am?” He turned back to the open cargo bay of his helicopter, stepping aside, revealing the darkened interior. The air hung thick with expectation.

A moment later, a tall, imposing figure stepped out of the helicopter’s dark interior. He was clad in familiar, though unmarked, KorTac-style tactical gear, his frame exceptionally broad. Distinctive, stylized sunglasses stared out from beneath his helmet, their gleaming eye sockets seeming to bore into the assembled Task Force.

Horangi.

The air around him crackled with an unspoken tension, an almost physical ripple that spread through the assembled Task Force 141. Price’s earlier joy at seeing Nikolai faded, replaced by a grim set to his jaw. Soap, Roach and Gaz, who had been grinning mere moments before, now exchanged wary glances, their eyes darting between the unwelcomed figure of Horangi and their commanding officers.

Ghost, ever the observer, had gone ramrod straight, his posture a silent language of alert suspicion. The only ones seemingly unaffected were Nikolai, whose disarming grin remained, and the Vaqueros, who merely looked on with heightened curiosity.

Horangi stood for a moment, letting the silence hang, his stylized sunglasses completely obscuring his eyes. He scanned the familiar faces of 141—Soap, Gaz, Roach, Ghost, Price—then moved on to Farah, Alex, and the Vaqueros, before finally settling on Laswell. His posture was still, his presence commanding, a stark contrast to Nikolai’s approachable warmth. Even without a word, the undercurrent of animosity radiating from 141 was palpable.

“Right then, everyone inside,” Laswell commanded, her voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere with professional precision. “We’ve got a lot to discuss, and not much time.”

The group moved, a strangely disjointed procession, towards the access hatch leading into the base. Price led the way, his stride purposeful. Soap and Gaz fell in step with Alex and Farah, a quiet conversation starting between them, while Ghost walked a few paces behind Price, his eyes never leaving Horangi, who trailed slightly behind the main group. Alejandro and Rodolfo, still assessing the new additions, walked with Laswell, their expressions serious.

Nikolai, with his almost lumbering gait, brought up the rear, his eyes scanning the surrounding hangar with an air of practiced vigilance, even as he muttered under his breath about the lack of good coffee in these kinds of places.

They passed through a heavy blast door, the sound of its seal echoing faintly, and down a short, sterile corridor. The base interior was a stark contrast to the dust and wind outside; cool, well-lit, and humming with the low thrum of unseen machinery. They were led into a spacious briefing room. A large tactical display dominated one wall, currently dark. A long, sturdy table, scarred with the marks of countless previous operations, stood in the center, surrounded by a dozen chairs.

As they took their seats, a palpable shift occurred in the room’s atmosphere. Laswell took the head of the table, motioning for everyone to take a seat. Price, Soap, Gaz, Ghost, and Roach naturally gravitated to one side, leaving a palpable gap between them and Horangi, who took a seat opposite them, his posture ramrod straight.

Nikolai settled comfortably beside him, while Farah and Alex sat between the two factions, subtly acknowledging the tension without directly engaging it. Alejandro and Rodolfo took the seats next to Farah and Alex, their gazes still sweeping the room, taking in the dynamics.

The air in the room was thick, not just with the scent of recycled air, but with unspoken history. Task Force 141 sat stiffly, their expressions ranging from cold indifference to outright hostility directed at Horangi. Ghost’s masked face seemed even more unyielding, his silence a heavy weight. Horangi, for his part, remained impassive, his sunglasses reflecting the harsh overhead lights, giving no hint of his thoughts. No one spoke for a long moment, the only sounds the creak of chairs and the faint hum of the base’s ventilation.

Nikolai let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. He glanced at Alex, then Farah, then Alejandro and Rodolfo. Each of them, astute observers of human dynamics, had picked up on the sudden chill. Alejandro’s brow subtly furrowed, while Rodolfo exchanged a quick, questioning look with Farah. Alex, leaning forward, his prosthetic leg resting comfortably, gave a slight shake of his head, a wry amusement playing on his lips, though his gaze remained serious as he observed the standoff.

The silence stretched, growing heavier, until Rodolfo, ever the bridge-builder, cleared his throat. “Is… is everything alright?” he asked, his voice gentle, almost hesitant, but cutting through the tension like a razor. “There seems to be an… interesting atmosphere.”

Alex chuckled, a short, dry sound that broke the spell. “Interesting? Rodolfo, you could cut the air in here with a butter knife. What’s going on?” He gestured vaguely between Horangi and T.F. 141. “Thought we were all on the same team now.”

No one from 141 responded immediately. Price’s gaze remained locked on Horangi, a silent challenge in his eyes. Ghost remained still, a statue of controlled restraint. Soap fidgeted, his usual exuberance momentarily muted and Roach glanced to the side, his shoulders stiffening. Gaz, however, shifted in his seat, his gaze flicking to Laswell, silently prompting her.

Laswell sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to pull the air from the room. She ran a hand through her short hair, her gaze sweeping over the assembled operators—her cavalry, as she’d called them.

“Alright, let’s get this out of the way,” she began, her voice firm, no longer softened by a rare chuckle. “Rodolfo, Alex, you’re right. There’s… history. Between Task Force 141 and KorTac.” She paused, her eyes meeting Price’s, then Ghost’s. “Some of it, I’d briefed you on—the general conflict, the ongoing operations. But for this specific situation, for König… there’s more you need to know.”

She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her hands clasped. “As you know, König was only a temporary addition to the 141 and permanently operated with KorTac. He was… one of their most effective assets. But König isn’t like the others.” She looked directly at Alejandro and Rodolfo, then Farah and Alex. “Before he was captured, he made a choice. A choice that put him at odds with KorTac, and put him in this situation.”

She took a deep breath. “König was embedded within a KorTac cell that was assigned to do a joint mission with Task Force 141. However, our operations clashed. During one particularly brutal engagement, König, under orders from KorTac, actively worked 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 141.”
Gaz shifted uncomfortably. Price’s jaw tightened visibly. Ghost remained still, but the coldness radiating from him intensified.

“He withheld intel, he set traps, he… he betrayed us,” Laswell continued, her gaze unwavering as it swept across the faces of 141, then to Horangi. “He back-stabbed 141, plain and simple. It nearly cost Price, Soap, and Ghost their lives, and put Gaz and Roach in critical danger. They barely made it out. They hated him for it. And they had damn good reason.”

A collective tension went through the room, subtle but present. Alejandro and Rodolfo exchanged grim looks. Farah’s expression hardened, her jaw tightening. Alex’s blue eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise and disappointment passing through them. Even Nikolai’s disarming grin had vanished, replaced by a look of grave seriousness.

“He compromised an operation, nearly got us all killed,” Price’s voice rumbled, low and dangerous, confirming Laswell’s words. His gaze drilled into Horangi. “Nearly butchered my men.”

Laswell nodded, acknowledging Price’s interjection. “It’s true. He acted as their mole. But König is not simply a traitor,” Laswell pressed on, her voice regaining its sharp edge. “Mid-operation, when KorTac was about to wipe out one of our own to cover their retreat, König… he chose differently. He turned on his own unit. He sacrificed his position, his life within KorTac, to give 141 the opening they—we needed to secure the intel and get out safely. He drew their fire, he created the diversion, he held them off long enough for 141 to escape.”

She looked at Ghost, then Price. “That’s how he was captured by KorTac. That’s why he’s in their hands. He betrayed KorTac to save 141. And that act, his sacrifice, is why he’s our responsibility to get back.”

She turned her gaze to Horangi. “And as for Horangi… he was 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘥 in that operation. He was one of the people König betrayed. However, he’s here now, because the intel he brings is invaluable. And because, for his own reasons, he wants König to be free too. He might have been a part of the problem, but he’s also a vital part of the solution.”

The implications hung in the air, a complex tapestry of loyalty, betrayal, and unexpected alliances.

Nikolai, bless his direct, no-nonsense heart, finally broke the heavy quiet. His head tilted slightly, his choppy English cutting through the tension. “Wow. Now 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 is… a lot to unpack. Like a very full suitcase, da?”

Laswell gave a curt nod. “It is, Nik. It absolutely is. And frankly, we don’t have the time to unpack it all right now. We don’t have the luxury of dwelling on past grievances, no matter how justified they are. This mission is critical. König has intel that could cripple us permanently if KorTac extracts it. And whether you like it or not, he bought us time and saved lives. We owe him.”

Her gaze sharpened, sweeping across every face at the table. “This will be difficult. It will be dangerous. We’re going into a hornet’s nest. If anyone here has second thoughts, if anyone isn’t willing to put aside personal feelings for the strategic imperative, now is the time to speak up. Now is the time to walk away.”

Gaz, without hesitation, slammed a fist lightly on the table. “Second thoughts? Laswell, we don’t leave our own behind. Not even the ones who make a right mess of things before they do a turn-about.” His eyes flickered to Horangi, a dark promise in them. “Especially not when we’ve got a score to settle and a new one to start.”

Price met her gaze, his expression grim but resolute. “We’re not going anywhere, Laswell.”

Ghost merely leaned forward, crossing his arms over his chest. “He put himself on the line. I’m in.” His voice was low, gruff, but resolute.

Soap nodded vigorously, his voice thick with conviction. His hand squeezed into a fist on top of his thigh under the table, his knuckles turning white with the force. “Aye, no one gets left in the cold when you’re part o’ this lot. He came back for us. We go back for him. Simple as tha’. I won’t abandon him a second time.”

Roach squared his shoulders. “He paid his dues. More than paid them. We’re in, Laswell. Always.”

Farah spoke next, her voice calm and firm. “From the sounds of it König earned his debt repaid. The Urzikstani Liberation Force stands with Task Force 141. I’m with you, Laswell.”

Alex shifted, his blue eyes serious. “Sounds like a classic redemption story, doesn’t it? Almost poetic. You’d be a fool to count me out.” He glanced at Nikolai, who gave a small, knowing grin.

Alejandro, his expression grim but determined, looked at Rodolfo, who nodded in silent agreement. “The Vaqueros don’t abandon allies, even complicated ones. We’re ready to assist in any way.”

Nikolai grinned, his large hands flat on the table. “Me? I just fly the plane. And help my friends. Always. You get in trouble, I come. No questions. Drinks later, da?”

Laswell’s lips twitched, a fleeting ghost of a smile. She nodded, a flicker of pride in her eyes. “Good. Well then, let’s get down to business.”

She tapped a series of commands on a console next to her, and the massive tactical display on the wall flickered to life. A detailed, three-dimensional representation of a sprawling, heavily fortified KorTac compound appeared, replete with multiple layers of fencing, guard towers, and a complex network of internal buildings.

“This is KorTac’s primary forward operating base, where König is being held, and is designated ‘Stronghold Alpha.’ It’s a reinforced, multi-level facility embedded deep within an old Soviet-era bunker complex near the….”

As she spoke, images began to flash onto the screen: satellite photos, thermal scans, architectural blueprints. Laswell pointed with a laser pointer. “The base is extensive, roughly a thousand square meters underground, with three primary access points: a main vehicle entrance, a service tunnel, and a rarely used ventilation shaft large enough for human ingress. Defenses are heavy: multiple guard rotations, cameras, motion sensors, and a perimeter patrolled by armored vehicles.”

“Bloody hell, you’d think they were guarding the queen with that security,” Gaz muttered under his breath, his eyes raking over the information being shown before him. There was one thing that was certain: this mission wouldn’t be easy. It’d probably end up with major casualties; maybe even death. Still, that didn’t matter. König needed them, and he planned to deliver. It’d just be nice if KorTac could’ve made the breaking in part a bit more easy. Pointless wishes he supposed.

Roach sighed, nodding his head. “Yeah, no kidding. This is gon’ be one hell o’ a mission. But it’s nothing we can’t handle, right?” He elbowed Gaz, flashing him a grin.

Gaz smirked in response. “Damn right it’s not.”

Laswell zoomed in on a section, continuing her briefing undeterred from the side commentary. “Entry points are limited. The main gate is heavily defended. We’ve identified two potential blind spots in their perimeter, but they’re narrow and heavily monitored by thermal and acoustic sensors. We’re looking at a standard KorTac force garrison, likely guarded by some of their best specialists for high-value targets like König. Horangi…” she nodded to him, “…now is your cue.”

Horangi, without a word, pushed back his chair and rose. He stepped to the display, his movements fluid despite the tension surrounding him. His gloved finger traced lines on the map.

“KorTac operations at Stronghold Alpha are structured rigidly, as Laswell has explained. Dey run in shifts, twenty-four/seven. Main security forces rotate eu-very six hours. Specialist teams, however, are static within deir zones. König will be housed in a high-value detainment cell, Sector Gamma, eu-nderground, five levels down. Eu-ccess is restricted by biometric and keycard locks, reinforced blast doors at eu-ach level. Command and Control is located in the central tower, Sector Beta. Power to the entire facility is routed through a single, heavily shielded generator array in Sector Delta, but it has redundant backup systems.”

Horangi paused, his voice low and steady. He let the words hang in the air, a complex web of vulnerabilities and fortifications laid bare. His gaze swept over the faces in the room—Ghost, Price, Gaz, Soap, Farah, Rodolfo, Alejandro, Nikolai, Price and even Laswell—lingering on each, assessing, ensuring they absorbed every detail. The hum of the display screen and the distant thrum of the base’s ventilation system were the only sounds, a stark counterpoint to the mental image he was painting. He knew the cost of overlooking even the smallest detail.

“Deir eu-nternal comms network is encrypted, but deir patrol patterns are predictable outside of an alert state. I can provide the patrol rotations for the outer perimeter and the known eu-nternal specialist routes. Dey use a specific hand signal protocol for silent communication; I can teach dis to your teams—it’s a KorTac standard, surprisingly eu-ffective, and dey rely on it heavily in restricted zones. Memorize it. Misinterpreting a gesture could be fatal.”

He gestured to a section of the display, zooming in on a network of lines. “The ventilation system, while robust, has several choke points dat could be eu-sploited for ingress or egress, particularly in Sector Gamma’s lower levels. Dey are not monitored by pressure sensors, only flow. We would need specific tools for dat, but it eu-voids tripwires and eu-nternal laser grids.”

Horangi paused, moving his hand to point at a specific point on the displayed map. “Speaking of sensors, cameras are standard thermal and optical, with a 360-degree sweep eu-very 15 seconds on the main corridors. However, dere are known blind spots behind the larger HVAC units and maintenance access panels—eu-bout a two-second window if timed perfectly. Pressure plates are eu-mbedded in the floor at eu-ll key intersection points and immediately eu-utside detainment cells. Dese are linked directly to the central eu-larm system; bypassing dem will require precision and, ideally, a pre-programmed jammer specific to deir frequency signature, which I also hab.”

His finger moved to another part of the map, highlighting a small, unassuming structure outside the main complex. “The primary generator in Delta is heavily shielded, yes, but the failover switch for the secondary grid is located in an eu-xternal eu-ccess panel, beneath a false rock outcropping eu-pproximately 300 meters north-northwest of the main gate. It’s a risk to target directly, but a potential kill-switch if we need a full blackout. Be warned, dough, a complete power failure triggers immediate level-four lockdown and a full facility sweep. Dat’s a last resort, for exfiltration eu-nder duress, not for initial breach.”

“KorTac personnel prefer a ‘hands-on’ approach,” Horangi continued, the corners of his lips tightening almost imperceptibly. “Less reliance on automated sentries, more on human patrols. This means more eyes, but also more predictable human error. Watch for the ‘graveyard shift’ complacency, eu-specially between 0300 and 0500. Deir comms discipline eu-sually wavers den. Also, deir ‘designated break areas’ on Level 2, Sector Beta, are monitored but less intensely patrolled during shift changes; we might be able to use dat for a diversion. König’s eu-xact cell location is 5-Delta-7. It’s reinforced beyond the standard, likely with eu-dditional soundproofing. Dere will be an armed guard, minimum two, directly outside his cell at all times, rotating every two hours, not six. Dey are chosen specifically for deir loyalty and combat prowess—assume dey are veterans with close-quarters training, and do not eu-nderestimate deir dedication to him.”

He trailed his finger along the outer perimeter shown on the display. “The outer perimeter is layered with buried motion sensors and tripwires, standard eu-ssue. Dese run on a separate grid, eu-ndependent of the main power. The most eu-ffective approach vector will be from the northeast ridge, eu-tilizing the natural terrain for cover. Eu-xpect drone patrols—dey typically fly a figure-eight pattern, low altitude, every twenty minutes, but can be jammed with a limited-duration pulse. In the event of a breach, eu-nternal blast doors will seal eu-utomatically within 10 seconds. Eu-vacuation points for personnel are marked, but deir priority is securing the facility, not a retreat. Dis means resistance will be fanatical rather dan tactical if compromised. Eu-xfil will need to be rapid. I’ve identified a disused service tunnel, eu-originally for waste disposal, leading eu-pproximately half a kilometer west, terminating near the old mining road. We’ll need compact transport for extraction from dat point.” Horangi continued, his voice dropping slightly, a hint of dry amusement in his tone.

“And trust me, you don’t want to be crawling through dat pipe for too long. It’s…𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. But it’s unmonitored, so dat’s our best bet for a clean eu-scape. No cameras, no pressure plates, chust… a lot of dirt and maybe a few 𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 rats.”

He let a brief, knowing smirk touch his lips, a flicker in his eyes that spoke of countless high-stakes situations, none quite like this.

“Now, about KorTac… dey like to play games, you know? But like any good gambler, you learn deir tells. And KorTac, dey have a lot of tells.” His gaze briefly swept across the room, his eyes meeting Ghost’s before quickly darting away. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t hold that stare. It felt as though a blizzard engulfed him every time he made eye contact with those eyes. To think König had to endure that stare for so long was unbelievable.

“Dey are bery proud. Too proud, maybe. Dat makes dem predictable. KorTac’s strength…it’s a big show. Lots of bark, but the bite… we can handle the bite.” He paused, a challenge in his eyes, but also a bedrock of confidence.

He gestured back to the map with a sharp, decisive movement, his gloved finger tracing potential pathways. “For the breash, I recommend a 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘴 approach. One small team for the ventilation shaft, maybe two, to bypass the initial perimeter sensors directly into a lower level near Target Gamma. Anodder team for the ex-ternal generator panel if we need the blackout—but dat’s a gamble, remember? High risk, high reward, but it will make a mess. And a third team, main ass-ault, to draw fire and pin dem down at the main gate or the service tunnel. Dat way, we dibide deir forces. It’s like poker, no? You bluff wit' one hand, you win wit' the other.” A subtle shrug, as if this was all just a complex game.

Horangi’s posture remained relaxed, yet every line of his body conveyed a coiled readiness. He let his gaze sweep over them again, a deep, intelligent fire in his eyes, ensuring his words had landed. “Dis mission, it’s not for the faint of heart. KorTac, dey will fight like rabid dogs to keep König. He’s... important to dem. But you are better. We are better. And we are going to geh him out. We will not leave him behind.”

Laswell leaned back. “Alright. You heard him, that’s the overview. We’ll refine the insertion and extraction points, and finalize team assignments based on this new intel. Expect deep dives into team roles and specific objectives within the next few hours. Now then—”

“And one last thing, if I may,” Horangi added, cutting off Laswell and looking over to her, silently asking permission to continue. She hesitated a moment, eyeing him before she nodded, gesturing for him to take the stage. He gave a curt nod of his own, turning to eye the soldiers now solely focused on him. “Despite what you may think, the biggest challenge of dis operation won’t be the high tech security KorTac has in place. Instead, it will be the Shadow Company detachments dey hab. Dey are loyal, fanatical, and react without hesitation. Dey are König’s personal guards, eu-ssentially. Getting past dem will be one of the biggest challenges brought on by dis mission.”

As he spoke, a palpable shift occurred in the atmosphere, almost imperceptible to an untrained eye, but glaringly obvious to those accustomed to the subtle language of hardened operators. The mention of ‘Shadow Company’ had not gone unnoticed.

Gaz’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes, usually sharp and focused while holding a certain warmth, now held a cold, unwavering intensity. Beside him, Soap’s hand, which had been resting casually on the table, clenched into a fist, knuckles white. A low, almost inaudible growl rumbled deep in his chest. "Fuckin’ Shadow Company," he muttered, his voice laced with venom, just loud enough for Ghost to catch it.

Ghost himself didn't move an inch, his posture as rigid as ever, but the air around him seemed to thicken. His masked gaze, fixed on the map, seemed to pierce through the layers of data to the very core of KorTac’s defenses, seeing past them to the black-clad figures. Roach, quiet as always, simply adjusted his grip on his thigh, a minute tremor visible in his knuckles, his eyes hardening with a grim resolve that was chilling in its quiet intensity.

But it was Alejandro who reacted most overtly. The easy camaraderie he’d shared with everyone moments before evaporated, replaced by a simmering fury. His hands, which had been resting open on the table, curled into tight, shaking fists. "𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺," he spat, the words a low, guttural snarl that cut through the room’s professional hum. "Those 𝘩𝘪𝘫𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘢... ^[44] We’ll tear them apart, piece by piece. They won’t know what hit them."

Rodolfo, seeing his friend's raw fury, placed a calming hand on his arm, but his own eyes, though calmer than Alejandro’s, had narrowed to dangerous slits. The memory of their last encounter with Shepherd's forces, the betrayal, the senseless destruction of Las Almas, hung heavy in the air.

Nikolai, observing from his logistical perch, exchanged a quick, knowing glance with Alex, both veterans of countless campaigns where personal vendettas often intertwined with strategic objectives.

Farah, her expression unreadable, simply tightened her grip on the edge of the table, her gaze flitting between the fuming operators and the impassive Horangi.

Price, who had seen it all, merely took a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes flicking from the angry faces of his men to Laswell, a silent acknowledgement of the powder keg they were sitting on.

Unflustered, Laswell allowed the tension to hang for a mere beat, acknowledging its presence without granting it a moment longer than necessary. Her gaze swept over the bristling operators, a flicker of understanding in her eyes, before she smoothly transitioned, her voice firm and unwavering. "Captain Price, I’ll need your teams prepped for a full-scale debrief immediately after this joint session. Horangi, thank you for your invaluable contributions. Your expertise on KorTac’s inner workings is precisely what we needed."

Horangi, mirroring Laswell’s professionalism, simply nodded, his expression unbothered by the sudden display of animosity from his temporary allies. He held Laswell’s gaze, a silent agreement passing between them to maintain focus. "Any time, Commander," he replied, his voice calm and even. "I'll remain on standby for any further questions regarding the hand signal protocols or specific routes. My data will be uploaded to your secure servers within the hour."

"Excellent," Laswell confirmed, her voice regaining its earlier, authoritative tone, pulling the room back from the edge of its emotional cliff. "Expect deep dives into team roles and specific objectives within the next few hours. We launch at 0400."

Price stood up, his gaze sweeping over his assembled team, the new allies, and the unlikely former foe now aiding their cause. A grim determination had settled back onto his face, hardened lines returning.

“Right then. You heard Laswell. Much to do, little time to do it. Let’s make KorTac wish they’d never heard the name Task Force 141.” He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Squad up. Let’s kick ass.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fluorescent lights of the armory hummed, casting a sterile glow over racks of weaponry and piles of tactical gear. The air was thick with the scent of gun oil, clean fabric, and the faint metallic tang of sweat. Around them, the clinking of carabiners, the rustle of Kevlar, and the soft 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱 of loaded magazines being inserted into vests created a symphony of readiness.

Gaz, meticulous as ever, was methodically checking his comms equipment, his brow furrowed in concentration. Roach, quieter, moved with an almost phantom efficiency, already half-kitted out, his movements precise as he slid a spare sidearm into its thigh holster. Soap, however, was slower, his usual quick-witted banter absent. He sat on a bench, a partially assembled sniper rifle lying across his lap, his hands resting on the cold metal, but his gaze was distant, fixed on nothing in particular. The rapid-fire download from Laswell and Horangi had left an uneasy knot in his stomach, a tangled mess of fury and a strange, unwelcome relief.

He picked up a pouch from his personal locker, intending to stash some spare ammo, but his fingers brushed against something hard and cool. He pulled it out: a knife. Not his standard issue combat knife, nor the ornate Scottish dirk he sometimes carried. This was different. Longer, sleeker, with a distinct, almost savage curve to the blade and a grip wrapped in coarse, dark leather. A familiar weight in his palm.

His breath hitched.

It was 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨’𝘴.

He hadn’t thought about it in weeks, perhaps even months, but he remembered it clearly. A miserable, rain-soaked night in some forgotten Eastern European alley, a close-quarters brawl gone south. His own blade had snapped, and König, silent as a wraith even then, had simply pressed this one into his hand, a quiet grunt of an instruction before disappearing into the chaos. "𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘵. 𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦." König hadn't asked for it back. Soap had just… kept it. A silent token of a blossoming friendship.

Now, holding it, his hands began to tremble.

The polished blade seemed to reflect not the armory lights, but fragmented images in his mind’s eye. König, a looming, masked figure, moving with an unsettling grace, a silent sentinel. König, his voice a high rumble, surprisingly gentle in spite of his size. König, sharing a rare, almost shy laugh after Soap had tripped over his own feet during an obstacle course.

Then, the memories shifted, darkening. The operations. The warnings that came too late. The feeling of being watched, of their plans being subtly undermined. The crushing realization, the raw, burning betrayal when they finally understood that the man who they’d thought was their comrade, someone they could trust, was really the one who had nearly gotten them all slaughtered. The fury had been a cold, constant companion after that, a deep-seated hatred for the one who had turned on them, on 𝘩𝘪𝘮. Especially after abandoning and ripping his heart out.

And now… Laswell’s words echoed. “𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵. 𝘚𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤, 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 141 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺—𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘺.”

The knife felt heavier, burdened with the weight of conflicting truths. He saw König, not as a faceless traitor, but as the man who had shared a quiet moment with him in his room looking over art work. The man who had, in the end, chosen to save them—𝘩𝘪𝘮.

A burning trickle of nausea clawed its way up Soap’s throat, a bitter cocktail of anger, regret, and a profound, aching sense of loss. A wave of profound mourning washed over him then. Not for a dead man, but for the loss of what could have been. What 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥’𝘷𝘦 been. The strange, quiet understanding they’d sometimes shared on the field, the unspoken respect for each other’s brutal efficiency. He remembered König’s stoic presence, the way his imposing frame could blend into shadows, his quiet instructions that somehow cut through the din of combat more effectively than any shouted order.

He missed that, missed 𝘩𝘪𝘮. The thought surprised Soap, a raw admission his mind had stubbornly fought against until now. He missed the terrifying, dependable presence of König. And the idea of him in KorTac’s hands, being tortured for intel…

"Bloody hell," he whispered, the sound a ragged breath in the quiet room. He blamed himself. If only they’d known sooner. If only 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 seen it. Maybe they could have helped him, saved him from that impossible choice.

Gaz, who had finished with his rebreather, looked up, his gaze drawn by Soap’s unnaturally still posture, the way his knuckles were white around the knife, his hands trembling—a rare sight for the usually energetic Scot.

“Soap?” Gaz’s voice was soft, a quiet rumble of concern. He moved closer, seeing the knife, recognizing it instantly. “Bloody hell… tha’s König’s, isn’t it?”
Soap didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the blade, lost in the memories.

Gaz knelt beside him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “Hey. Look at me, mate.” When Soap finally dragged his gaze up, his eyes were raw, haunted. “Listen. Wha’ König did… the first time, that betrayal… we 𝘢𝘭𝘭 felt it. We all hated him for it. You’re not alone there.”

A pause, then.

“And wha’ he did 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳… saving our asses… tha’s on him too. He made his choice. And wha’ KorTac’s doing to him now? That ain’t on you, Johnny. Not a single bit of it.”

Roach, quiet as a shadow, had moved over too. He put a hand on Soap’s other shoulder, a silent, firm presence. “He chose us,” Roach said, his voice a low gravel. “He knew the cost. We’re just paying the debt.”

Gaz squeezed Soap’s shoulder. “He’s a complicated bastard, König. Always was. But he’s 𝘰𝘶𝘳 complicated bastard, now. And we don’t leave our own to rot. You’re not the only one who misses the quiet menace he brought to the field, Johnny. We’re all feeling it.”

Soap took a shuddering breath, the air burning in his lungs. The guilt didn't vanish, not entirely, but the crushing weight of isolation began to lift. He wasn't alone in this tangled mess of emotions. He wasn’t the only one who missed 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

Just then, the armory door swung open with a soft hiss, and Rodolfo stood framed in the doorway, his usual vibrant demeanor replaced by a look of focused determination. “Alright 𝘷𝘢𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘴. Laswell wants us in the ops room. Time to finalize this plan. Let’s go.”

Soap looked down at König’s knife, its cold steel a stark reminder of everything that had led them to this point. His hands still trembled slightly, but the overwhelming sense of despair had begun to recede, replaced by a fierce, driving anger at KorTac, and a renewed, harder determination. He wouldn’t let König’s sacrifice be in vain. He wouldn’t let him remain in their hands.

He carefully sheathed the knife and tucked it deep into an inner pocket of his vest. Not as a memento of betrayal, but as a promise. He looked up at Gaz and Roach, a grim nod passing between them.

“Aye,” Soap said, his voice still a little rough, but firm. “Let’s do this.” He pushed himself to his feet, a renewed resolve solidifying within him. Not 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, not yet. But certainly more determined than ever to make KorTac pay.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The biting wind whipped across the snow-dusted ridge, carrying with it the scent of pine and something else—a faint, metallic tang that spoke of reinforced concrete and hidden power. Below them, nestled deep within a jagged, frost-rimmed valley, lay the hulking, almost invisible scar on the earth. KorTac’s base. An old Soviet-era bunker complex, resurrected and refined by KorTac, now a cage for their target.

“Looks even worse up close,” Gaz muttered, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He adjusted the night vision scope on his rifle, the imposing silhouette of the facility resolving into sharper, more menacing lines. “Bloody hell, you’d think they were Fort Knox with tha’ security, eh, Price?”

Price didn't respond immediately, his gaze sweeping the landscape, matching it against the digital map projected on a mini tablet courtesy of Laswell. “Aye, Horangi wasn’t exaggerating,” he finally rumbled, his voice low, a grim note of respect for the enemy’s thoroughness. “Every detail’s accounted for. This isn’t just a base; it’s a bloody vault.”

The team was spread out across the northeast ridge, utilizing the natural terrain for cover, just as Horangi had advised. Ghost, a wraith even in the darkness, scanned the perimeter with his own optic, marking the rhythmic sweep of thermal cameras. Soap, Rodolfo, Alejandro, Alex, Farah, Laswell, Nikolai, and Horangi himself were arrayed nearby, their gear a silent promise of the violence to come.

“𝘋𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩,” Nikolai’s voice crackled, cutting through the comms. A faint whirring became audible, growing steadily louder. “𝘍𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦-𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦. 𝘑𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘯’ 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦… 𝘵𝘸𝘰… 𝘰𝘯𝘦.”

A shimmer of static briefly danced across their NVGs as Nikolai triggered a limited-duration pulse. The drone, a dark speck against the starless sky, visibly wobbled, its whirring motor losing sync for a moment before righting itself. It continued its patrol, oblivious, but the window had been created.

“𝘈’𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱,” Price said, his voice a low growl that cut through the silence. “𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪 𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘞𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘈𝘭𝘱𝘩𝘢, 𝘵𝘩𝘢’𝘴 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘚𝘰𝘢𝘱, 𝘈𝘭𝘦𝘹 𝘢𝘯’ 𝘙𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘧𝘰. 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘧𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘯. 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢, 𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯’ 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵. 𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘶𝘴. 𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘢, 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦: 𝘎𝘢𝘻, 𝘍𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘩, 𝘈𝘭𝘦𝘫𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘰. 𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘭, 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘪𝘯’ 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦. 𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘪, 𝘙𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯’ 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯’ 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘫𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺, 𝘢𝘯’ 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢’ 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢’𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥?”

Nods and murmured affirmations rippled through the team. The plan was set and everyone was at the ready. There was no going back, no second guessing, and no second chances. Now the game could really begin. For better or for worse.

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Ghost led the way, a silent shadow in the night. Soap, Alex and Rodolfo followed, their movements coordinated, almost a single entity, their tactical gear absorbing the ambient light. The chilly mountain air nipped at their exposed skin, but their focus was absolute. They bypassed the buried motion sensors and tripwires, the invisible web of security that Horangi’s detailed schematics had so painstakingly laid bare in their minds. Every step was deliberate, every gust of wind observed for unnatural sounds.

The air grew tighter, colder, as they descended into a small, overgrown gully. The soil here was perpetually damp, clinging to the soles of their boots. Here, camouflaged beneath a thicket of gnarled, ancient roots that twisted like skeletal fingers from the earth, was their entry point: the ventilation shaft entrance. The metal grate, obscured by clinging moss and fallen leaves, exhaled a faint breath of stale, metallic air.

“Horangi wasn’t kidding ‘bout ‘tight’,” Soap grunted, his voice a low, raspy whisper through the air, as he peered into the narrow, dark opening. The smell of damp earth and something indefinably old wafted out, promising claustrophobia. “An’ rats, I’ll bet. Big ones.”

“No kiddin’. I’d bet the place was abandoned if I didn’t know any better.” Alex responded, a small scrunch of disgust making its way across his face.

“Guess we better get ready to make friends with the mice, si?” Rodolfo chimed in, smirking and elbowing Soap in a playful fashion.

Soap chuckled. “Aye, I guess so.”

Ghost merely grunted, a noncommittal sound that vibrated more than spoke. He was already squeezing through the rusted metal grate, his broad shoulders barely clearing the frame. The groan of stressed metal was a short, sharp shriek in the quiet night, quickly muffled by the surrounding earth. Rodolfo followed, his smaller, wirier frame making the entry slightly easier. Soap took a deep breath, the cold air sharp in his lungs, mentally preparing himself for the claustrophobic journey, and ducked inside with Alex quickly following.

The shaft was indeed a nightmare of cramped space. The corrugated metal groaned under their combined weight, a constant, unsettling protest. They moved in single file, Ghost’s helmet-mounted light cutting a narrow, shifting beam through the inky blackness. It illuminated a frantic dance of dust motes, long-dead cobwebs draped like funeral shrouds, and the occasional glistening trail of slime. The air grew thicker with every meter, heavy with the scent of damp concrete, rust, and the indefinable, earthy musk of an ancient subterranean structure. Something scuttled ahead, a fleeting shadow, confirming Soap’s earlier prediction.

“Gonna need a shower after this,” Soap mumbled, more to himself than his teammates, as he scraped his elbow on a protruding bolt. His jaw tensed, his eyes locking on to the point of contact on his arm. He knew it was stupid but he couldn’t help resenting the fact he’d bumped into such a small bolt. He’d been trying to act normal, make jokes like usual and focus on the mission—to not be entirely consumed by the guilt and grief he feels for König—but it seemed he was still off his game. He’d have never caught his arm on something so stupid before. He should’ve been paying more attention. He needed to be better, he couldn’t—

“Walk it off, Johnny,” Ghost grumbled, his voice a dry rasp that seemed to vibrate through the metal walls of the shaft itself. He didn’t bother glancing back at Soap or slowing down, but it was clear he’d noticed Soap’s spiral and was trying to keep him calm. Soap couldn’t help the small smile that spread across his face as a warmth settled in his chest. Even if Ghost didn’t outright say it, he cared. And that was enough. For now. He’d have later to spiral.

They navigated the labyrinthine ducts, a network of intersecting pathways and sudden drops. Their comms were silent save for the scrape of gear on metal and the rhythmic thud of their own heartbeats, amplified by the close quarters. Horangi’s intel had been invaluable: specific choke points, unmonitored by pressure sensors or optical tripwires, that allowed them to descend several levels without triggering alarms. Each junction was precisely mapped, each turn anticipated.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of crawling and wiggling, Ghost signaled a halt. His light beam settled on a riveted metal panel.

“Access panel,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the hum of distant machinery. “Sector Gamma, Level Three. Two levels above König.”

Alex, ever the breaching expert, produced specialized tools from a pouch on his belt: a slim electronic probe, a set of miniature picks, and a small, almost invisible, fiber optic scope. He worked with practiced ease, his movements precise and sharp, bypassing the internal locking mechanisms, then disarming the local alarm circuit. A faint click, almost imperceptible, was the only sound of success.

The panel hissed open, a sudden rush of cooler, cleaner air washing over them. It revealed a glimpse of a dimly lit corridor, the air acrid with the sharp smell of cleaning solvents and something metallic—a scent unique to deep underground facilities, a blend of ozone and stale blood.

Ghost slipped through first, his MP5SD raised, its integrated suppressor a dark extension of his arm. He scanned the corridor, a fluid, practiced motion. The corridor was monitored by a rotating thermal-optical camera, its mechanical whirring a soft, rhythmic pulse. The 360-degree sweep of the camera was predictable—every 15 seconds. He timed his move, darting into the brief two-second blind spot behind a large HVAC unit, its vents breathing frigid air. Soap followed, then Rodolfo and Alex, their movements quick and efficient, silent, their shadows melting into the deeper gloom.

They moved like phantoms, their boots barely kissing the polished composite floor. The facility was eerily quiet, the distant thrum of generators a low, constant presence. They bypassed a pressure plate at a key intersection, a barely visible square etched into the floor. Rodolfo deployed a small, pre-programmed jammer, no larger than his thumb, that nullified its frequency signature just as Alex stepped over it, nearly joining the dead.

“Patrol approaching,” Ghost reported, pointing down the corridor. The heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on concrete grew louder. Two KorTac operatives, clad in their signature black gear and armored vests, rounded a corner, their weaponry—customized AK-12s—held loosely, almost negligently. Their conversation was in low, guttural English, laced with a thick Eastern European accent, indicating the graveyard shift’s complacency. One of them, a burly man with a shaved head and intricate tattoos snaking up his neck, stretched, yawning widely, oblivious to the three specters pressed against the wall.

This was their window.

As the operatives passed their position, their backs momentarily turned, Ghost and Soap sprang. Ghost took the lead, a blur of motion. He was upon the first operative before the man could register movement, a hunter closing in on it’s prey. A gloved hand clamped over the man’s mouth, pulling him back. A sickening crunch echoed in the sound-dampened corridor as Ghost snapped the operative’s neck with brutal efficiency. The man’s body went limp instantly, his weapon clattering to the floor with a muted thud.

Soap, a heartbeat behind, moved with equal ferocity. He slammed the rifle butt of his M4 into the second man’s temple with controlled force. The operative crumpled without a sound, his eyes rolling back, his weapon sliding across the polished floor. Before either body could fully settle, Rodolfo moved with practiced haste. He grabbed the closer operative’s ankle, dragging him silently towards a maintenance closet just a few meters away. Alex secured the other, and together, they heaved both unconscious forms inside, sealing the heavy metal door with a soft click.

“Clear,” Rodolfo whispered, his breath clouding momentarily in the cold air. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple.

Soap glanced at Ghost, a silent acknowledgment of their seamless coordination, then wiped his brow. "Told you I'd need tha’ shower," he muttered, managing a faint smirk that had been severly missed the past couple of weeks.

“Don’t get cheeky, Johnny.” Ghost grunted, his skull-like mask betraying no emotion, only a grim determination. Even so, Soap could still see the small hint of affection in the Lieutenants eyes. The big softie.

Ghost ignored the small smirk on Soap’s lips and instead swept his MP5SD ahead, already moving deeper into the labyrinthine facility. He didn’t have time to engage in Soap’s banter. Not now. They pressed on, knowing the peace wouldn’t last, that every step brought them closer to König, and in hand closer to hell.

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Price, Gaz, Farah, Alejandro, and Horangi moved towards the service tunnel entrance, a heavy steel door set into the rock face. This approach was less about stealth, more about impact. Nikolai had identified a potential blind spot, a narrow cul-de-sac created by a rockfall and a defunct comms tower, but it was still monitored.

“A’right, team,” Price muttered, eyeing the watchtower above the tunnel entrance. “We hit hard, we hit fast. Draw as much attention as possible. Horangi, you got their comms discipline for the graveyard shift?”

Horangi nodded, his eyes narrowed. “Dey are sloppy now. But a breach… dat will change things. Once we eu-nfultrate their communications will become much more precise. Dey’ll be quick to mobolize and begin locking down the base.”

Gaz, armed with an LMG, took point. “Right, then. Let’s give ‘em something to complain about.”

They moved in, using the rough terrain for cover. Sniper glints from the watchtower confirmed Price’s suspicion: a KorTac marksman was scanning the area. Farah, a shadow among shadows, took aim with her suppressed DMR and dropped the sniper before he could react, the crack of the shot minimal, almost lost in the wind.

“Go!” Price roared, and Gaz opened up, a torrent of lead tearing into the service tunnel entrance, chewing through the surrounding rock and sparking off the armored door. The sound was deafening, a stark contrast to Team Alpha’s silent infiltration.

Immediately, alarms blared. Red lights flashed across the bunker’s visible exterior. The sleepy graveyard shift was over.

Armored vehicles, previously patrolling the perimeter, roared to life, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Men poured out of the main vehicle entrance, weapons raised. Price’s team was immediately under heavy fire, pinned down by a relentless volley.

“Contact! Multiple hostiles, two armored vehicles!” Alejandro yelled, laying down suppressing fire.

“Tha’s the idea!” Price yelled back, emptying a clip from his assault rifle into a group of advancing KorTac soldiers. He saw a figure in the distance, a tall, imposing woman with a distinctive dreadlock-like hairstyle, piercing eyes and a modified SMG—Calisto. Her movements were precise, commanding.

Horangi, meanwhile, aimed his rifle at a camera above the service tunnel, taking it out with two precise shots. “Focus fire on the engines of the vehicles! Dey are less protected!” he shouted, then began mixing into the fray, using KorTac hand signals and shouting false orders meant to confuse the enemy. They still didn’t know Horangi was a traitor, making him their ace in the hole. However, it was only a matter of time before Horangi was spotted giving misleading orders or KorTac pieced together he wasn’t really operating on their side but until then, they were going to use him to his full worth. Every second mattered and every resource was valuable—underhanded or not.

“I don’ need to be told twice!” Gaz grinned, a wild, almost feral expression, as he swiveled his LMG and poured concentrated fire into the engine block of one of the armored vehicles. The heavy rounds, designed to punch through light armor, hammered against the reinforced steel with a sound like a metal drum being rattled by a giant. Sparks danced, briefly illuminating the frantic chaos of the firefight, as Gaz walked his tracer line across the target. He didn't just aim; he felt the recoil, a steady, rhythmic pulse against his shoulder, guiding each bullet with savage precision.

He held the trigger down, the muzzle flash momentarily blinding, until the vehicle's engine spat back. First, a series of concussive thwacks as the rounds tore through the outer plating, then a hissing shriek as something vital internally ruptured. A thin, greasy plume of smoke, acrid and metallic, began to snake from a freshly rent vent, quickly thickening into a roiling, black cloud that clung to the vehicle like a shroud. The engine, still trying to churn, coughed and spluttered, its desperate whine fading into a choking gurgle.

Then came the pops. Not one, but a rapid-fire series of them, like firecrackers exploding inside a tin drum. These were the fuel lines, ruptured and ignited by the blistering heat and shrapnel, each a brief, violent stab of orange light flickering within the burgeoning smoke. The sound escalated, a ragged, tearing sound now joining the chaotic symphony, as the internal components began to cook off. A tire, superheated, burst with a loud BANG, sending a spray of rubber shrapnel outwards. Another followed, and another, until the vehicle sagged precariously on its mangled axles.

The smoke, now thick and black, billowed higher, momentarily obscuring the vehicle. But it was impossible to miss the escalating glow from within the churning fumes—a sickly, growing orange that pulsed with malicious intent. A split second later, the world bucked.

A deep, concussive WHUMPH ripped through the air, shaking the very ground Gaz knelt on. It wasn't a sharp crack, but a monstrous, guttural roar that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality. A gout of blazing flame, a sickening, beautiful blossom of orange and yellow, erupted from the vehicle's engine compartment, peeling back its armored hood like the lid of a tin can. Shrapnel, superheated and jagged, screamed through the air in a deadly halo, peppering the surrounding terrain with lethal energy. Gaz felt a distant pang as something metallic ricocheted off the wall beside him, but his eyes were fixed on the inferno.

The main explosion wasn't a singular event. It was a violent crescendo, a cascade of internal detonations. What followed was a series of secondary, sharper CRACKS as ammunition stored within the passenger compartment cooked off, each one a smaller, contained explosion that added to the vehicle's agony. The air shimmered with the intense heat, even at Gaz's distance, and the acrid smell of burning fuel, oil, and tortured metal filled his nostrils. The vehicle, already crippled, groaned and twisted, its sturdy frame buckling inward as if crushed by an invisible hand. Flames licked and curled around its now-exposed skeleton, painting it in a terrifying, flickering light.

When the last, fainter thump faded, replaced only by the roar of the fire and the crackle of burning components, the armored vehicle was no longer a threat. It had been transformed into a deformed, burning ruin. A hollowed-out husk, still shrouded in black, oily smoke that continued to churn upwards, thick and greasy against the twilight sky. The vehicle lurched, then ground to a halt, a smoldering monument to Gaz's unyielding determination and KorTac’s soon-to-be demise.

In that moment, Gaz understood why Soap liked blowing stuff up.

Suddenly, the heavy steel door of the service tunnel began to retract, groaning on rusted hinges that shrieked in protest, a sound like a tortured beast. The metallic scream was followed by a whoosh of stale, recycled air, revealing a dimly lit interior. Within, the air hung thick with the metallic tang of old machinery and the faint, acrid scent of ozone. Dozens of KorTac soldiers, all in full combat gear, were packed shoulder to shoulder, their faces grim, a unified wave of grim resolve and palpable tension. Their rifles glinted dully under the sparse, flickering lights, a forest of readiness.

But then, the collective menace faded, pulled violently into the background by a singular, overwhelming presence. It was as if a spotlight, invisible but potent, had been thrown upon one figure, drowning out the peripheral vision, silencing the internal chatter. Among them, a hulking figure stood, head and shoulders above the rest, a terrifying armoured-mask obscuring any trace of humanity.

𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰.

His existence in that cramped space didn't merely occupy it; it seemed to 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 it. The other KorTac soldiers, formidable in their own right, instantly became mere shadows, props in the grim theatre of his emergence. Their tactical gear, their trained postures, their very numbers, all dissolved into an indistinct mass, a blur against the stark, overwhelming presence of his form. Each man, a trained killer, suddenly seemed to shrink, reduced to an insignifigant cog in the machine he commanded simply by existing.

Nikto’s frame was a fortress of raw, brutal strength. His bulk was a study in intimidating geometry—broad shoulders that seemed to stretch the very definition of a human silhouette, a chest like a reinforced bunker, and limbs thick with muscle and hard plating designed for nothing less than absolute destruction. He didn't just stand; he loomed, a overwhelming shadow cast over the entire scene, making the robust steel door frame seem fragile, the tunnel itself suddenly too small to contain his oppressive presence. It was like looking at the grim reaper—at Ghost. His heavy weapon, a monstrosity of metal and composite materials, rested in his grip as though it were a child's toy, its immense barrel pointing ever-so-slightly downwards, a silent promise of untold devastation.

Even from what was a considerable distance within the tunnel's gloom, obscured by the other soldiers and the intermittent flickering of the harsh fluorescent lights, his eyes seemed to pierce through them. Not literally, of course, for they were hidden behind the terrifying, segmented visor of his mask, a grim, unyielding faceplate of hardened steel that offered no sliver of empathy or recognition.

Yet, the feeling of his gaze was undeniable. It was a cold, calculating intensity that seemed to bore directly into the deepest parts of their minds, an icy sliver of pure, unmistakable intent passing through the air, through the intervening bodies, and landing squarely upon them. There was no warmth, no flicker of life behind the dark, vacant slits that served as his eyes, only an unwavering, predatory focus that promised a swift, efficient, and utterly merciless end. It wasn't just a look; it was an undeniable invasion of their personal space, a silent, chilling declaration of his absolute dominance, leaving no doubt that in this confined space, and perhaps beyond it, he was the only force that truly mattered.

“Fucking hell—Nikto!” Horangi barked, recognizing the specialist with ease. After all, not everyone walked around with that mask and amount of intimidation. Just their luck. Out of every soldier that could’ve arrived so early in the game it had to be the last person he wanted to see. Even König felt truly uneasy around this guy. Just fan-fucking-tastic.

“𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵. Where's our scary, overly intimidating masked guy when ya need him?” Gaz muttered, fighting his body's instinct to turn and 𝘳𝘶𝘯. Looking at Nikto standing there, his eyes piercing, felt like looking at his upcoming death. Not an unfamiliar feeling considering he worked on the same team as Ghost; however, that didn’t mean it was any more welcome. All he wanted to do was run tail and go back to base where he knew it was safe, but he couldn’t back down. Not now. If he did, then he might as well go dig his own grave. He wouldn’t be the kind of guy who just abandoned one of his own the moment it got tough. He wouldn’t leave König—wouldn’t 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺 him.

He couldn’t. Not after everything. And he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

“Get ready, this is gonna be a real fucking shitshow!” Horangi yelled, his body moving into a highly on guard fighting stance. He wouldn’t back down. He wouldn’t simply stand on the sidelines anymore. He had to do this, for König.

And just like a grenade landing, the momentary standoff shattered.

The ensuing firefight was brutal, a maelstrom of gunfire, explosions, and shouted commands. Price’s team, though outnumbered, was well-practiced. Farah and Alejandro covered each other, their movements fluid and deadly accurate. Gaz’s rifle continued to spit fire, keeping Nikto and his squad pinned. Price, with Horangi covering his flank, advanced, determined to breach the tunnel.

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Meanwhile, Ghost, Alex, Soap, and Rodolfo were already deeper within KorTac’s base, the distant echoes of the main assault a constant, thrumming reminder of the chaos above. They navigated the corridors, relying on Horangi's intel to avoid pressure plates and camera sweeps. The facility felt vast, a concrete tomb swallowing them whole.

“Level Five access point,” Ghost rumbled, pointing to a reinforced blast door. “König’s level.”

The door was formidable, requiring a keycard and biometric scan. Rodolfo, using a high-tech scanner, worked on bypassing the system. “The biometric is complicated,” he grunted, frustrated. “Looks like a retina scan. Won’t be easy to get past.”

“Well, then you better get to work.” Ghost clipped back, his eyes scanning the corridor. It was quiet. Too quiet. For the past floor, they hadn’t run into any KorTac operatives. Now, it could simply be that they’ve all been drawn to Price’s and his group's distraction, but that wasn’t very probable. No doubt some soldiers have left to go deal with Price, but there's no way Price’s group has been confirmed to be dangerous enough to warrant all soldiers coming to help just yet. Especially not with a base this big. Something wasn’t right. But what? He couldn’t say.

Rodolfo chuckled. “You make it sound so easy, Ghost. If only it were. But don’t worry; I’ll get the door open.”

As he worked, a squad of KorTac specialists rounded the corner ahead: Fender, a heavy gunner, and Aksel, moving with the predatory grace of a hunter. They were on high alert, drawn by the distant alarms.

“Contact!” Soap hissed, bringing up his rifle. Before he could even react, Ghost was already engaging.

Ghost’s first burst from his suppressed MP5SD tore through the dimly lit corridor, striking Fender square in the chest—but the man didn’t go down. Instead, he staggered back with a choked curse, armor plates absorbing the brunt of the impact. Before Ghost could adjust, Fender retaliated, swinging his rifle up and firing blind. Rounds ricocheted off concrete, forcing Ghost to duck behind a support column.

Beside him, Aksel wasn’t just reacting—he was attacking. The massive operative roared, leveling his shotgun in one smooth motion. The first deafening blast chewed into the wall where Rodolfo had been standing a split-second prior. Concrete chunks exploded outward as Rodolfo dove behind cover, barely avoiding the buckshot.

"Suppress him!" Ghost barked.

Soap didn’t hesitate. He stepped out, his own rifle snapping up, but Aksel was already moving—yanking Fender back by his vest and shoving him toward a maintenance alcove for cover. Fender coughed, blood flecking his lips, but his gloved hands were already tearing a frag grenade from his belt.

"Grenade!" Alex shouted.

The team scattered just as the explosive clattered across the floor. The blast was deafening, sending shrapnel biting into the walls and filling the air with acrid smoke. On one brightside, it damaged the control panel to the door, sending it flying open. Ghost’s ears rang as he rolled behind a steel crate, feeling the heat of the explosion lick at his gear.

Aksel and Fender weren’t done.

Aksel, the big man, bull-rushed forward almost immediately after the explosion died down, swinging a combat knife. Rodolfo barely twisted away in time, the blade scoring a deep gash across his arm rather than his throat. Snarling, Rodolfo countered with a brutal knee to Aksel’s ribs, then jammed his rifle butt into the man’s jaw. Bone cracked, but Aksel barely seemed to feel it—he grabbed Rodolfo’s vest and threw him into the wall, sending a fresh wave of pain through the already injured operative.

Meanwhile Fender, breathing hard, used the chaos to his advantage. He dragged himself up behind a computer terminal, wincing at the pain in his chest, and blind-fired over the top. Rounds sparked off the ceiling, forcing Soap to keep his head down.

"We don’t have time for this!" Ghost snapped. "Get through the door! Now!" He shouted, his voice a low growl of command that cut through the noise. His eyes were fixed not on the immediate fight, but on the heavy blast door at the far end of the corridor they were fighting to escape. It was slowly, almost imperceptibly, beginning to descend as its wiring acted up (no doubt from the previous explosion.) This wasn't a retreat; it was an advance, sealing their path forward while hopefully cutting off their pursuers.

Alex moved like a shadow, slipping along the wall. He waited until Fender paused to reload before striking—lunging forward and slamming the stock of his rifle into Fender’s wounded ribs. Fender gasped, dropping his weapon, but he twisted at the last second, catching Alex’s wrist before he could crack his skull. They grappled, teeth bared, neither willing to give an inch, locked in a desperate dance mere yards from the slowly closing maw of the blast door.

On the other side of the hallway, Soap finally got a clear shot. He fired twice—Aksel’s leg buckled as rounds punched through his thigh. The giant staggered but didn’t fall, whirling on Soap with a furious backhand that sent him reeling, even as Rodolfo, seizing the moment, ducked under Aksel’s arm and sprinted towards the increasingly narrow gap of the blast door.

"Go, Rudy!" Ghost roared, laying down suppressive fire over Rodolfo's head, keeping Aksel momentarily disoriented. Rodolfo, blood dripping from his lip and arm, threw himself through the opening, rolling on the other side and quickly bringing his rifle up to cover the retreating team.

Soap, shaking off the blow, scrambled to his feet. He sprayed a burst at Aksel, buying precious seconds, then dove after Rodolfo, sliding through just as the heavy plasteel doors were waist-high as they lowered.

"Alex! Get clear!" Ghost yelled, his voice strained. The doors were now only a meter from sealing.

Alex, still locked in a desperate struggle with Fender, saw the urgency of their situation. With a feral grunt, he channeled every ounce of his strength. He twisted, using Fender’s own momentum against him, slamming the mercenary back against the wall, then shoved him away from the threshold with one hand. Fender stumbled, snarling, off-balance. In that split second, Alex pulled free, ducking low and sliding through the rapidly shrinking gap. He felt the whisper of the closing door against his pack as he cleared it, just as Fender lunged again, a frustrated roar tearing from his throat, slamming his fists against the impervious surface.

Then—𝘊𝘓𝘈𝘕𝘎.

The blast door at their backs slammed shut like a tomb sealing. The sound of hydraulics locking echoed ominously, a deep, final thud that vibrated through the very floor. Aksel, roaring in impotent rage, slammed his good fist against the solid plasteel. He was too slow, too wounded to make it. He and Fender were cut off.

On their side, Ghost, Rodolfo, Soap, and Alex were breathing hard, the adrenaline still coursing. Alex didn't waste a second. His eyes immediately fixed on the control panel mounted beside the now-sealed blast door. Without a word, he raised his rifle and emptied a short, precise burst into the console. Wires sparked, lights died, and a smell of ozone filled the air as the mechanism shattered.

"That's sealed," Alex stated, his voice tight. "No reopening from their side or ours."

Rodolfo, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand, nodded grimly. "We're committed. No turning back now." He looked at the mangled control panel, then at the impenetrable door. The enemy was trapped, but so were they, in a way. The only way was forward.

Ghost’s finger tightened on the trigger of his rifle. This fight was far from over, but the terms had changed. He looked down the new, eerily quiet corridor that stretched before them. “Good,” Ghost snarled, a grim satisfaction in his tone as he pushed forward. “Let’s move.”

They moved through the newly secured corridor, the distant thuds and shouts of Aksel and Fender slowly fading behind them. They knew more resistance was imminent; the air thrummed with the electric anticipation of battle. Heavy footsteps and rapid commands, sharp and authoritative, echoed from ahead, growing louder with every beat of their hearts. They were getting closer to König, but the enemy was closing in just as fast. The path was set; there was no escape now, only forward.

Rounding another corner, the air in the narrow corridor seemed to crackle as they were plunged into a maelstrom. Directly ahead, a squad of KorTac operators, led by an unmistakable man of strength and brute force—Hutch—had taken up defensive positions. Hutch himself, a blur of motion, was already bringing his compact SMG to bear.

Before the command to attack could fully leave Hutch’s lips, Ghost was moving, a spectral blur. His rifle coughed twice, a controlled, suppressed burst. The first KorTac soldier, raising his rifle, grunted as rounds punched through Kevlar, dropping him instantly. Soap, a heartbeat behind, snapped off a trio of shots, his gun roaring, felling another operator who had been attempting to flank from a recessed doorway.

"Contact! Front!" Alex barked, his M4 tearing into the third man attempting to suppress them from behind a stack of crates. His bursts were aggressive, designed to break cover and force the enemy to rethink their position. Rodolfo, ever the sharpshooter, had already melted back against the wall, his own rifle raised, scanning for angles, waiting for a clean shot.

The corridor erupted. Muzzle flashes strobed, painting the scene in stark, flickering light—a close-quarters ballet of death. The acrid tang of gunpowder filled the air, mingling with the metallic scent of sweat and adrenaline. Hutch, surprisingly fast, ducked a burst from Alex, then unleashed a short, controlled spray from his SMG, forcing Ghost and Soap to drop low, rounds chewing into the concrete above their heads.

"You fucking bastards got some nerve showin' face in KorTac turf!" Hutch's voice, rough and street-worn, cut through the din, laced with venom. "Bet you're tryna snatch back that traitorous asshole König? Well I got news, man's getting what he deserves! And there's no way in hell I’m letting you get in the way of that! Bravo, flank right!" Hutch yelled, his voice cutting through the din, attempting to direct his men even as he moved like a striking viper. One of his remaining soldiers, leveraging a fallen teammate for cover, tried to obey, scrambling around a pillar. But Soap was quicker. Anticipating the move, he spun, snapping his rifle up, and put two rounds cleanly into the operator’s chest just around the man’s vest before he could even raise his weapon, sending him sprawling.

Ghost, meanwhile, used the momentary distraction. He surged forward, a silent predator, his knife glinting in the chaotic light. He closed the distance on the last standard KorTac trooper, who was foolishly focused on Alex’s suppressive fire. A swift, brutal strike to the throat, a choked gurgle, and the man was down, Ghost already transitioning, his rifle brought back to bear.

Now it was just Hutch, alone but unyielding. He was good, fast, undeniably dangerous. He pressed his attack, his SMG spitting fire, rounds stitching a line across the bulkhead where Alex had just been, forcing him to pull back. Hutch then shifted his focus, attempting to pin Soap against the wall, his aim tight, predatory.

"You wasted your damn time coming here! Especially you, pretty boy!" Hutch snarled, his eyes locking onto Soap, his words cutting deeper than any bullet. "You think comin’ here is gonna change things? Especially after that rat bastard offed Roze just to save your sorry ass, MacTavish!" Hutch snarled, his voice thick with venom. "You think I forgot that? He killed one of our own—𝘩𝘪𝘴 own just to save your pathetic life, and yet you just gonna forget all that? You owe him your life, and he payin' for it now, one way or another!"

The words hit Soap like a physical blow. A flicker of raw anger and something deeper, a ghost of memory, crossed his face—not just a mere recollection, but a sudden, overwhelming replay. His mind’s eye wasn't merely recalling; it was 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 again, in the crumbling, dust-choked warehouse. The reek of ozone and metallic tang burned his nostrils, sharp and acrid. He saw König, a hulking silhouette against the gloom, a figure who, moments before, had been an enemy, a traitor, then… something utterly inexplicable.

He remembered the sickening lurch in his gut, the disbelief freezing him as König, who was supposed to be a traitor, had moved with a terrifying, unthinking speed. A single, sharp crack had ripped through the tense silence, louder, more decisive than anything else in that moment. Roze, a blur of dark tactical gear, had stuttered, a choked gasp escaping her. The crimson bloom on her chest, staining the fabric, had spread with impossible speed, a vivid, terrible flower. She’d crumpled, a puppet with severed strings, her weapon clattering uselessly beside her.

And König. He stood over her, M4A1 still raised, the echo of the shot ringing in the cavernous space. No hesitation, no regret visible on his hidden face. Just the stark, brutal finality of it. Soap’s breath had caught, trapped in his chest. 𝘞𝘩𝘺? The question had screamed through his mind, tearing at the fabric of what he understood. This was the man who had supposedly betrayed them, who had never cared for 141, for 𝘩𝘪𝘮. Yet, in that impossible instant, he had bought Soap’s life with Roze’s. What did it 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯? How could the man who had left them for dead, who had plotted against them, just… done 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?

𝙒𝙝𝙮?

König was a threat, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a calculating traitor. He wasn’t supposed to 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦. He wasn't supposed to 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.

𝙒𝙃𝙔? The question screamed in Soap's mind, a desperate, echoing cry amidst the chaos and the collapse. Why was König even there? And why… why did he just save 𝘩𝘪𝘮? The memory was a physical weight, pressing down, suffocating Soap.

The brief, almost imperceptible hesitation after those words was all Hutch needed to renew his aggressive barrage. Soap, with a jolt that violently snapped him back to the present, became a whirlwind of motion, his body moving on autopilot, propelled by residual shock and a fresh surge of adrenaline. He rolled under the incoming fire, coming up on one knee, his rifle barking a reply too close for comfort. Hutch cursed, a round grazing his arm, sending a spray of red mist.

As Hutch faltered, momentarily distracted by the searing pain, he glanced back, his eyes narrowing, searching for an opening, for a way to turn the tide. In that fraction of a second, Rodolfo, who had been patiently observing the chaos, found his window. From his concealed position behind the initial corner, a perfect line of sight had opened. His rifle cracked, a single, precise report that cut through the lingering echoes of the firefight. The bullet, a silver whisper of death, found its mark, punching cleanly through Hutch’s temple. His eyes widened in a final, shocked stare before he crumpled, his SMG clattering on the blood-spattered floor, finally silenced.

The sudden quiet was deafening, broken only by the heavy breathing of the operators and the distant, fading sounds from further down the complex. The air felt thick, heavy with the memory of the violence that had just transpired. As much as everyone would’ve loved to take a second, to rebalance themselves, they knew time was of the essence. Ghost, Soap, Alex, and Rodolfo moved forward, their faces grim, their movements precise as they checked the fallen, ensuring no further threats remained. They didn’t have the luxury of lollygagging around.

They were near König’s cell—Sector Gamma, 5-Delta-7. The air grew heavy with anticipation, their objective tantalizingly close. Just as they rounded the next bend, the distinct thud of heavy boots and the barked commands of a new wave of KorTac soldiers echoed from the far end of the corridor. Drawn by the earlier fierce exchange, they were swarming.

"Contact! Multiple targets!" Alex hissed, ducking instinctively.

"Damn it," Soap muttered, scanning the corridor. They needed a diversion, and fast. They ducked into a small, dark alcove, the space barely big enough for the four of them, as the surge of enemy forces grew louder, closer. The corridor ahead was a deathtrap.

“I’ll draw them,” Soap whispered, his eyes glinting with a dangerous resolve. “You three push for the cell.”

“You mean them two, I’m going with you.” Alex cut in, moving to stand beside Soap, a fierce glint in his own eyes.

“What? No. I can do this myself—”

“Too bad, I’m coming with. Like hell I’m letting you have all the fun. Besides, going solo is not an option on the table. Now, let's move!” Before Soap, Rodolfo or Ghost could protest, Alex launched himself from the alcove, pulling Soap with him. His M4 spat a controlled, devastating burst down the corridor, immediately drawing the attention of the lead KorTac soldiers. Their focus shifted instantly, and they returned fire with a coordinated, thunderous volley.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Ghost muttered, his jaw clenching in annoyance. It figures Soap would try to go off on his own and Alex would jump at the opportunity to tag along. For a moment he hesitated, wanting to follow his body's initial response to go with Soap, then bit his inner cheek. He had a mission to do. And despite all the hardships Johnny was going through he could handle himself. Besides, he wasn’t alone—Alex was with him. It’d be fine. It had to be.

“Let's move.” Ghost grunted, turning to seize the opportunity given. Rodolfo sputtered, his eyes darting back towards Soap and Alex.

“Are you sure—”

“We have a mission to do, Sergeant. They can handle themselves. Now let’s move.” Rodolfo stared at Ghost for a second, his eyes searching, before he sighed and nodded his head.

“Si, let’s finish this.”

And just like that they were moving, slipping around the corner, moving towards the heavy, reinforced door marked 5-Delta-7.

Meanwhile, Soap and Alex were plunged into a desperate, deafening dance with death. The narrow corridor, once a path forward, had become a funnel of fire, an unforgiving gauntlet of lead and light. Their initial bursts had drawn the full, furious attention of the KorTac soldiers, who advanced with grim determination, their weapon lights cutting through the murky illumination of KorTac’s base. Tracers arced through the air, painting luminous crimson and yellow streaks against the grimy walls, impacting with sharp CRACK-THWACKS as they tore into the concrete and metal around them.

Soap, his movements a blur of practiced efficiency, emptied a magazine into the charging enemy ranks. Three soldiers folded, their cries swallowed by the overpowering thunder of gunfire, but more immediately took their place, pushing forward with relentless aggression. He dove, rolling behind a reinforced electrical console that sparked dangerously as incoming rounds shredded its casing. With a grunt of effort, he slapped out the empty mag and slammed a fresh one home, the metallic clack a small, reassuring sound in the hurricane of noise.

Alex, a few feet away, pressed himself against the cold, unyielding surface of a damaged server rack, his M4 spitting controlled bursts. He was doing his best to conserve ammo, but the sheer volume of fire from the enemy was forcing his hand. He could feel the vibrations of the impacts through the metal, rattling his teeth, the concussive force of near-misses stinging his skin. He swore under his breath, leaning out just enough to drop a charging KorTac, then quickly ducking back as a volley of rounds chewed into his cover.

"They're not letting up!" Alex shouted over the din, his voice strained, a bead of sweat tracing a path through the grime on his temple. "These aren't their usual cannon fodder!"

Soap, his eyes narrowed, peeked around the console again, returning fire with pinpoint accuracy. "Horangi wasn't kiddin’, then. 'Veterans with close-quarters training,' he said. Bloody hell, they're earnin’ their pay!" He could feel the pressure mounting, the enemy slowly but surely gaining ground, their numbers seemingly endless. Every kill was immediately replaced, every pause in their fire met with an increase in the enemy's. They had to keep them busy, buy Ghost and Rodolfo precious seconds, but the cost was becoming terrifyingly clear.

Just as Soap was about to pivot, seeking a new angle, a figure emerged from a side corridor, positioned strategically to oversee the unfolding defense. This wasn't just another grunt; this was a commander, barking sharp, almost rhythmic orders, directing the flow of the assault with chilling precision. The voice, though partially muffled by the roaring exchange of fire, was unmistakable. It was a cold, calculating tone, edged with an insidious familiarity, a voice that had haunted Soap’s most deep-seated nightmares since the fiery crucible of Las Almas.

Soap froze, his finger tightening on the trigger, but his weapon remained silent. All the noise, all the adrenaline, all the immediate danger seemed to recede, replaced by a sudden, sickening chill that seeped into his bones. His blood, moments ago boiling with rage and the heat of battle, now ran cold, then surged back with an intensity that threatened to consume him. A primal, guttural roar seemed to rise in his chest, choked off before it could escape.

There, in the flickering emergency lights that struggled against the gloom of KorTac’s base, stood the man he believed was dead. The man responsible for so much pain, so much betrayal, the architect of a lie that had nearly shattered Task Force 141. The impossible had just become terrifyingly, indisputably real.

Phillip Graves.

The bastard.

Chapter Text

“Un-fuckin’ believable.” Soap’s voice was a guttural snarl, barely audible beneath the endless gunfire, yet vibrating with an intensity that burned through the chaos. His entire body coiled, every muscle screaming at him to turn his weapon on the man who stood unashamedly before him. The electrical console he’d been using for cover now seemed to buzz with his own barely contained fury.

Phillip Graves, looking infuriatingly composed amidst the storm, a faint, sardonic smile playing on his lips, lifted a hand, momentarily pausing the renewed advance of his KorTac troops. The gesture was one of casual authority, as if he were simply ordering a drink.

“Soap…” Graves drawled, his voice carrying an unnerving calm, a stark contrast to the hellish symphony around them. “You miss me? Well, technically you did, didn't you?” A low chuckle escaped him, devoid of any genuine mirth, dripping instead with an arrogance that made Soap’s blood boil. “Honestly, I thought you’d have better aim than that, kid. Though, in fairness, it was a rather… 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 situation, wasn't it?”

The implication of Las Almas, the memory of being trapped, the betrayal, it all hit Soap like a physical blow. It wasn’t a punch to the gut, but a lightning strike straight to his brain, searing away all rational thought, all tactical awareness. The world, already a chaotic blur of gunfire and shouting, seemed to narrow to a single, burning point: 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴.

A primal growl rumbled deep in Soap’s chest, a sound born of indignity and a rage so profound it stole the air from his lungs. His vision swam, not from the gunpowder in the air or the exertion, but from the sudden, overwhelming surge of blood to his head. Every fibre of his being screamed, every nerve ending throbbed with the injustice of it all. He could feel the familiar weight of his rifle in his hands, but for a moment, it felt like an extension of his own trembling fury, an instrument of vengeance waiting to be unleashed.

"Ye glaikit, slaverin' wee bawbag!" he snarled, his voice a thick, almost impenetrable brogue, each word laced with venom and a raw, untamed fury that distorted his features. "Yer pure gallus, showin' yer manky geggie 'ere, ye treacherous wee shite! Ye’ve the absolute gall, the pure neck, tae show yer mingin’ double-dealin' face ‘ere, after aw tha’? Ah’ll rip yer bleedin’ throat oot, ye hear me? Ah’ll pure maul ye, ye absolute piece o’ shite!" The words tumbled out, slurred and heavily accented, a torrent of Scottish vitriol that would have sounded like gibberish to anyone not intimately familiar with his accent, but the intent behind them was unmistakably clear: pure, unadulterated murder.

He started to rise, his weapon twitching, a tremor running through his arms that wasn't from fatigue but from the intensity of the singular, blinding rage that had consumed him. The battles raging around him, the lives at stake, the mission—it all faded into an indistinct hum against the deafening roar of betrayal in his ears. His sights, unthinking and unerring, settled squarely on Graves.

“Easy, MacTavish. You don’t want to do something you’ll regret now, do you?” Graves tried, his voice surprisingly calm, almost a condescending purr, as if speaking to a child having a tantrum. The placating tone only poured fuel on Soap’s fire.

“Regret?!” Soap’s voice strained, cracking with the effort of holding back a scream, his shoulders tensing, every muscle coiled. His grip on his rifle became bone-white, knuckles popping. “𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘵?! Ye sleekit, two-faced wee scunner! Ye left us tae rot, aye? Left us for dead! Yer a pure fanny baws, ye are! A wee dobber! Think ye can just waltz back in, all high and mighty, after what ye pulled?!”

His words, already slurred by the intensity of his emotion, began to tangle and warp in his throat, the rich, guttural brogue of his homeland permanently taking over, thick as moss. The sounds that tore from him were less articulated speech and more a guttural roar, punctuated by the harsh rhythm of distant gunfire.

“Ye think I’ve forgatten’?” he spat, saliva flying from his lips, his eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, now glazed over with a mad glint. “Nev’er! I’ll nev’er ferget wha’ ye did, ye… ye wee… 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯! Ye’re pure arsehole! Gie’s peace! Get tae… tae fuck wi’ yer ‘regret’! Yer pish! Pure pish, ye are!”
He took a wild, lurching step forward, his rifle now trembling, the laser sight dancing erratically across Graves’ chest. The words continued to spill from him, a torrent of unintelligible, rage-fueled Scottish epithets.

“Yer a… a… bawbag! Aye! A wee numpty wi’ a… wi’ a… a big… big… gobshite! Yer a…” He trailed off, gasping for breath, his chest heaving, his face a mottled red. He was practically vibrating with the force of his own rage, the veins in his neck bulging, his eyes fixated on Graves like a predator on its prey.

To an outsider, it was a terrifying spectacle; to Graves, it was an amusing problem that needed immediate defusing. Sadly for him, Alex handled that part.

Though the metallic cough of Soap’s rifle spat a controlled burst, the spent casings clattering against the scorched concrete floor, it wasn’t Graves who suffered. Instead, two KorTac soldiers who had pressed too close on Graves orders crumpled like puppets with their strings cut.

A hot, vindictive surge of triumph flooded Soap’s veins, a dark and venomous thing that re-narrowed his world to his sights and the form of the man commanding them from across the room. Graves.

He was already chambering the next round, muscles coiled to aim again, to push the assault, to make that smug bastard 𝘱𝘢𝘺—

A strong hand clamped onto his shoulder plate, yanking him back down behind the bullet-riddled server console with a force that was both surprising and absolute. His helmet scraped against the metal as he was unceremoniously dumped into cover.

“Woah, woah, easy there, tiger!” Alex’s voice was a sharp, gravelly whip-crack, cutting through the red haze that had descended over Soap’s mind. “You want to get yourself killed? Focus, you madman!”

Soap’s chest heaved, the adrenaline making his hands tremble. He shoved at Alex’s arm, his voice a guttural snarl. “Get off! I had him in my sights, Alex! One clean shot—”

“You had 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨!” Alex shot back, his face close, eyes narrowed behind his own visor. Dust and sweat streaked his tactical paint. “You stick your head up for a ‘clean shot’ and you’ll get it scoured clean off your shoulders! That was a feint, you idiot. A bloody invitation. He’s got a dozen more of these bastards, and he’s got eyes on us! You charge out there, you’re just giving him exactly what he wants!”

“He doesn’t get to just stand there!” Soap argued, the words hot and bitter in his mouth. The image of Graves, cool and composed amid the chaos he’d orchestrated, was a brand on his mind. “He doesn’t get to win after wha’ he’s done!”

“Winning isn’t about putting a bullet in 𝘩𝘪𝘮 right now!” Alex’s voice dropped, losing none of its intensity but gaining a brutal, pragmatic edge. He didn’t yell the next part. He made it a statement, cold and hard as iron. “It’s about getting 𝘰𝘶𝘵. It’s about completing the objective. Or did you forget why we’re here, Sergeant?”

Soap opened his mouth to retort, but Alex plowed on, his gaze unyielding.

“Look at me,” Alex demanded, his hand still a firm weight on Soap’s armor, not in restraint now, but in emphasis. “Look at me. It’s about König.”

The name landed not like a blow, but like a bucket of ice water.

Soap’s breath hitched. The red mist fogging his vision seemed to thin, and for the first time since the firefight erupted, he truly saw something other than Graves. He saw the worry etched in the lines around Alex’s eyes, the grim set of his jaw. The roaring in his ears faded, replaced by the staccato symphony of gunfire and the frantic thumping of his own heart.

König.

The big Austrian wasn’t here, laying down suppressing fire with that terrifying, calm efficiency of his. He wasn’t a solid, unmovable wall at their backs. He was the reason they were here, bleeding in this corporate hellhole. He was the objective. Captured, or worse, if they failed.

Alex saw the shift, the dawning clarity, and pressed the advantage, his voice low and urgent. “That’s it. Come back to me, Johnny. Graves wants you angry. He wants you stupid. He’s playing you. And every second we’re pinned down here, playing his game, is a second longer they have with him. So what’s it going to be? A glorious, pointless death chasing a ghost? Or are you going to help me get your boy back?”

Soap gasped, taking a ragged, shuddering breath that burned in his lungs. The cold, oxygen-starved reality of their situation crashed down, finally snapping him fully back to the present. He blinked, shaking his head as if to physically clear the vengeful fog from his mind. His eyes, however, never truly left the silhouette of Philip Graves across the room.

But the focus had changed. The burning hatred was still there, banked now, transformed from a wildfire into a forge’s coal—hotter, more controlled, and with a purpose. The purpose wasn’t just killing. It was saving.

He gave a single, sharp nod, his jaw clenched. The argument was over. He adjusted his grip on his rifle, his movements deliberate and precise once more.

“Good man,” Alex muttered, releasing his shoulder and peeking over the console. “Now, while you were having your moment, I counted twelve. Let’s make a plan that doesn’t end with all of us in a body bag. For König.”

“For König,” Soap echoed, the words a vow, his voice steady now, the edge of madness replaced by the cold, sharp promise of retribution. His eyes, however, never truly left Graves.

Graves, watching the exchange, merely chuckled again, a sound that grated on Soap’s last nerve. “Best stay calm, Johnny. No need to be hostile. We all know I was only following orders.” His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on Soap. “Unlike some, I know how to play the game.”

“Orders?!” Soap scoffed, spitting the word like a curse. He leaned out from cover, firing a devastating burst that ripped through the chest of a KorTac operative attempting to flank Alex. “Funny, ‘cause your orders involved tryin’ to gut us like fish, you back-stabbing son of a bitch!”

“Such strong language, Soap,” Graves said, a mock sigh in his voice. He made a hand signal, and two more KorTac soldiers, armed with shotguns, began to push forward aggressively, their heavy blasts tearing into Soap and Alex's cover, forcing them to duck lower. “And here I always thought you were the more… refined type. Guess a little time in the hot seat changes a man.”

“A little time in the grave changes a man, Graves!” Alex yelled back, returning fire with an economical three-round burst, dropping one of the advancing shotgunners. “Clearly didn’t work for you, though. Still a bloody rat!”

The corridor became a maelstrom of insults and lead. Soap and Alex were fighting for their lives, yet a significant portion of their mental energy was consumed by the venomous exchange with Graves. Every suppressed pop of their weapons, every thunderous crack of an enemy’s, was punctuated by a jab or a taunt.

“You always were a loudmouth, Alex,” Graves retorted, his voice unwavering even as he directed his troops to shift their fire. “Though, I have to admit, you’re still a decent shot. Pity you wasted it on the wrong side.”

“Right side’s the one that doesn’t try to execute its own men!” Soap screamed, letting loose a controlled eight-round burst that swept across three advancing KorTac soldiers, their bodies dropping in quick succession. He was burning through ammo faster than he liked, but his fury was driving him, honing his aim to a razor’s edge. Every kill was a point scored against Graves, a tiny act of defiance.

The enemy, however, was relentless. They adapted, pushing harder from the front, attempting flanking maneuvers through the side conduits and doorways that dotted the complex. Soap and Alex spun, ducked, and fired, their movements fluid and synchronized, a deadly dance honed by countless battles. Alex’s rifle barked, sending a KorTac soldier sprawling as he tried to round a corner. Soap followed up with a precisely aimed shot, hitting another in the head before he could reload.

“He’s baiting you again, Soap!” Alex grunted, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he suppressed an incoming wave of fire. “Don’t let him get in your head!”

“Too late, mate! He’s already bought real estate!” Soap snarled, his eyes scanning for an opening, not just to kill the KorTac grunts, but to get his hands on Graves. The commander had positioned himself slightly further back, observing, directing, seemingly enjoying the spectacle of Soap and Alex’s struggle.

Then, Soap saw it. A brief lapse in Graves’ concentration, perhaps a moment of overconfidence. A KorTac soldier advanced too eagerly, drawing Graves’ attention slightly to his left as he barked an order. It was a fractional shift, but it was enough.

“Alex! Flash!” Soap roared, not waiting for a response. He pulled a flashbang from his vest and, with a powerful underhand throw, sent it arcing towards the enemy’s main advance. It detonated with a blinding CRUMP, followed by disorienting shrieks and shouts from the KorTac soldiers.

Seizing the precious, deafening seconds of enemy confusion, Soap surged forward, a primal cry tearing from his throat. He vaulted over the console, M4 still clutched, but his intent was no longer to shoot. He closed the distance in a terrifying blur, ignoring the half-blinded grunts stumbling around him.

Graves, hearing the change in the din, spun, his eyes widening fractionally as he registered Soap’s charge. He started to raise his own weapon, but it was too late. Soap was on him.

With a powerful, uncoiling motion, Soap brought his left fist around, a haymaker fueled by months of simmering rage and betrayal. The impact was sickeningly solid, a loud CRACK that echoed even through the fading ringing in the air. Graves’ head snapped back violently, a spray of crimson mist erupting from his nose, and he stumbled, dropping his weapon with a clatter. His eyes, now wide with surprise and pain, glazed over for a fraction of a second.

Soap didn’t let up. As Graves reeled, Soap’s right knee came up, driving into Graves’ midsection with brutal force, knocking the wind out of him. Graves gasped, doubling over, clutching his stomach, his mangled nose gushing blood.

“That’s for Las Almas, you bastard!” Soap spat, grabbing Graves by the collar, pulling him upright, and slamming him against the cold, metal wall. He raised his fist for another blow, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

Before he could land it, a surge of recovered KorTac soldiers descended. Two of them were on Soap instantly, thick-gloved hands gripping his arms, pulling him away with surprising strength. A guttural snarl ripped from Soap’s throat as he fought back, every muscle straining, his M4 still clutched in his left hand, his right fist a coiled spring of fury. He twisted, elbowing one KorTac soldier in the jaw, sending a jolt of pain up his arm but barely slowing the man. The other soldier, however, maintained his grip, digging in. A third KorTac operative rushed to Graves’ aid, interposing himself protectively. Alex, having just dropped another KorTac grunt attempting a flanking maneuver, saw Soap struggling and barked a warning, providing cover fire to keep the remaining conscious hostiles at bay.

Graves, still gasping, pushed himself away from the cold metal wall, his hand pressed firmly to his profusely bleeding nose. The crimson smeared across his face, stark against his pale skin, only accentuated the grimace of pain and simmering vengeance that now replaced his earlier smirk. His eyes, fixed on Soap, were no longer playfully sardonic; they were narrowed to slits of cold, unblinking calculation, predator’s eyes. He wiped a hand across his mouth, leaving a streak of blood, but his voice, though thick with the coppery taste of his own injury, was shockingly steady, devoid of the earlier taunt.

“Clever, Johnny,” Graves rasped, the words a low growl that cut through the renewed gunfire. He tilted his head slightly, as if assessing a new threat. “Got a good right hand on ya. Always knew you had the grit, but this…” He gestured vaguely at his bleeding face with his free hand. “This is new.” A flicker of something unreadable—respect? Amusement?—crossed his features, quickly masked by that icy cold.

Soap, still struggling against the KorTac soldiers holding him, snarled back. “Consider it a down payment, you bastard! For every man you betrayed, for every lie you spun!” He lunged forward again, spitting the words, but the KorTac hold was firm.

Graves merely watched, his breathing slowly steadying, his gaze unwavering from Soap. “Betrayal, eh? You really think it’s that simple, MacTavish? You think I enjoy this song and dance?” His eyes flickered to Alex, then back to Soap, a strange, almost burdened look replacing the pure malice. “There are bigger players here, kid. Much bigger. And you and your precious Task Force are caught in the crossfire of something you don’t even comprehend.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Graves!” Alex yelled, his rifle snapping another shot that dropped an advancing KorTac soldier. “You chose your side! You chose to put a gun to our heads! And now you’re doing it again!”

Graves slowly nodded, a ghost of his old, infuriating smile returning, but it was a cold, humorless thing. “Am I? Or am I choosing to try and save our asses, yours included, from a force that would crush us all without a second thought?” He took a deliberate step back, signaling two of his men to flank him, forming an escape route. His eyes, however, never broke contact with Soap’s. “You think I’m the biggest monster in this room, Johnny? You’re dead wrong. These people… KorTac… they’re not like us. Not like anything you’ve ever fought. They’re a tide, and you’re a sandcastle, mate. And I’m just looking out for ya, old friend, whether you believe it or not.”

The words struck Soap with an unsettling ring. The way Graves said “old friend,” the sudden absence of the usual mockery, the raw, unvarnished pain in his voice when describing KorTac—it was a chill that went beyond his fury. He saw a fleeting glimpse of something in Graves’ eyes, a flicker of genuine fear, perhaps, or a profound weariness. But then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by a hardened resolve.

Graves, flanked by his men, began to move, backing slowly into a deeper, darker corridor that seemed to swallow the light. He glanced over his shoulder once, a final, lingering look at Soap and Alex—a look that held a question, a warning, and something else Soap couldn’t quite decipher. Then, just as the last of his retreating soldiers turned the corner, Graves raised his hand, not in a taunt, but in a strange, almost regretful, salute.

“Good luck, gentlemen. You’ll need it for what’s to come. Word of advice? Get out soon before you burn,” he called out, his voice echoing eerily down the dark passage before he finally disappeared from sight, leaving Soap’s fury simmering and his mind reeling. The cryptic, unsettling warning hung in the air, a chilling new undercurrent of dread and confusion now seeping into Soap’s blood-boiling rage.

Soap cursed, wrenching himself free with a desperate burst of strength, sending the KorTac soldiers stumbling back. He fired a burst of wild frustration into the retreating shadows, but it was too late. Graves was gone. He turned his attention back to the immediate, overwhelming threat of the remaining KorTac soldiers, but the fight now felt different. The personal vendetta had been momentarily assuaged, only to be replaced by a deeper, more insidious unease. He had landed his blows, but Graves’ parting words had found their mark too, leaving a wound in Soap’s mind that was far more troubling than any physical injury.

Meanwhile, Ghost and Rodolfo, having navigated a maze of service tunnels and derelict storage areas, finally stood before the heavy, reinforced door marked 5-Delta-7. The sounds of the firefight they'd left behind were muffled now, a distant, rhythmic thudding that spoke of desperate struggle.

“Ere’ we are,” Ghost grunted, his voice low, pulling a set of specialized breaching tools from his pack. “Let’s get our man out.” Rodolfo nodded, his expression grim, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. The real mission was about to begin.

As Ghost selected a thermal lance from his kit, a sound, almost imperceptible over the distant thudding of the firefight, echoed down the narrow tunnel. A scrape, too heavy for a rat, too deliberate for falling debris. Before either man could react, a hulking figure materialized from the shadows of a cross-tunnel to their left.

He was a colossal specimen, easily six-and-a-half feet tall, clad in heavy, unmistakable Shadow Company dark grey tactical gear that seemed to absorb what little light permeated the utility corridor. His head was encased in a terrifying, almost demon-looking mask, its dark lenses reflecting nothing but the void. There were no visible weapons, but his fists, massive and gloved, looked like wrecking balls. He moved with a silent, terrifying speed, not unlike a phantom, yet his impact was anything but ethereal.

It was Velikan. The man said to be a shadow of a shadow. So well feared tales of his exploits are written off as fairytales at best and gross exaggerations at worst. Those who know him never speak ill of him. Whether it’s due to fear or respect, no one knows. And he was 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. His distinctive mask and armor was more than enough proof. After all, no one would dare try to pose as him. Not unless they were willing to face the consequences.

He crashed into Rodolfo, a silent, powerful tackle that sent the smaller man sprawling against the reinforced door with a sickening thud. Rodolfo’s sidearm clattered away, his breath knocked out of him. Before he could recover, Velikan was on him, a heavy knee pinning his chest, his hands closing around Rodolfo’s throat. No words, no warning, just brute, crushing force.

“Rodolfo!” Ghost roared, instinctively reaching for his own weapon, but another shadow, faster and more fluid, detached itself from the opposite side of the corridor.
This assailant moved with a predatory grace, a familiar, unsettling silhouette. Taller than Rodolfo, built like a brick house but with the lean efficiency of a predator. Ghost’s blood ran cold when the figure turned, and the dim light caught their face.

Or rather, the mask.

It was a skull, like his own, but this one was crafted from dark, burnished metal, forged into a brutal, twisted copy. The eye sockets were deep, hollow, gleaming with a cold malevolence, an almost perfect, terrifying mirror. Scarifications, stark and traditional, crisscrossed the man’s exposed neck and wrists, visible beneath the rolled sleeves of his tactical shirt—a legacy of his Soweto heritage.

Mace.

He wore the skull, not as a defiant symbol of a life lived close to death, but as a statement of death itself. There was a faint, almost imperceptible smirk beneath the metal jaw.

“Simon. Long time no see,” Mace’s voice was a low growl, rough, yet eerily calm. He held a combat knife, not drawn, but ready, his thumb resting casually on the hilt.

Ghost froze, his hand hovering over his holster. “Mace? What the hell are 𝘺𝘰𝘶 doing ere’?” The question was laced with a venomous mix of recognition, shock, and a deep-seated anger. He hadn’t seen Mace since… 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 mission. The one that had ended so badly, the one that had changed everything.

Mace took a slow, deliberate step forward, his eyes visible through the dark slits of the mask, glinting with a predatory amusement. “Doing a job, same as you. Although, I’ll admit seeing you… that’s a nice bonus I didn’t expect.” He gestured vaguely at the door with his chin. “Guess you’re looking for König, huh?”

Adrenaline surged through Ghost, fighting down the wave of nausea mixed with rage. He knew Mace. Knew him from their Ranger days, when they’d both been young, hungry, and unburdened by the horrors that now defined them. Mace had been a formidable operator even then, but something had twisted in him. He’d left the Rangers, resurfaced as a ghost story in the shadow world, a brutal enforcer for hire, part of Shadow Company.

“You always were one for the theatrics,” Ghost retorted, his voice tight. “Wha’, you saw my mask an’ thought, ‘hey, I can do tha’, but worse’?”

Mace let out a low chuckle, a grating sound that scraped against the concrete. “Worse? No, Simon. Better. You showed me what it meant to survive. What you had to 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦.” His gaze hardened, fixing on Ghost’s own skull mask. “Remember that op? The one in Aleppo? When the orphanage went up, and you had to make the call to pull out, leave them to burn to save the intel?”

Ghost flinched, the memory a scorching brand. He’d seen the faces of the children, heard their screams, but the mission… the mission had been paramount. He’d worn his mask then, a shield against the impossible choices.

“I saw you, Simon. I saw the face you wore, the one you hid behind. And in that moment… I decided I’d start watching you. And what I saw was a monster. A man fully dedicated to the hunt. It was then I realized what you were, it was the only way to truly be free of weakness. To be truly effective. To become… a weapon. You showed me the path. My mask, it’s not to hide. It’s to declare what I’ve become. What you 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 me become.”

Mace’s words hung heavy in the air, a poisonous accusation, a twisted honor. Ghost felt a cold dread settle in his gut. Mace hadn't just replicated the mask; he’d taken the 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢 of Ghost’s brutality from back then, when he wasn’t 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, and amplified it, stripped it of any internal conflict, embracing the darkness completely.

“Bullshit,” Ghost snarled, finally drawing his sidearm, the Desert Eagle a familiar weight in his hand. “You chose your path, Mace. Don’t pin your twisted sense of morality on me.” He glanced at Rodolfo, who was now writhing, gasping, Velikan’s massive hands crushing his windpipe. “Let ‘im go, Mace. An’ get the hell out of my way. I’m not leaving without König.”

Mace’s metallic skull tilted slightly, a chilling mime of thought. “Can’t have that. Orders are orders. And honestly?” He finally drew his own combat knife, a wicked blade that gleamed dully in the low light. “I enjoy the challenge.” He took another step, his stance shifting, ready. “A chance to finally see who’s the better Ghost.”

The last word was a trigger.

Mace launched himself forward, not with a charge, but a fluid, almost silent sprint, his knife a blur. Ghost, a master of close-quarters combat himself, reacted instantly. He fired a quick, aimed shot from his Desert Eagle, but Mace was already too close, too fast. The bullet whizzed past his head, embedding itself in the steel door just above Rodolfo’s struggling form.

Mace’s knife slashed downwards, aiming for Ghost’s head. Ghost sidestepped, bringing the heavy pistol up to block the strike. The blade scraped across the Desert Eagle’s slide with a screech of metal, sending sparks flying. The impact jolted Ghost’s arm, but he countered immediately, a brutal elbow strike aimed at Mace’s temple.

Mace twisted, absorbing most of the blow with his armored shoulder, then retaliated with a lightning-fast backhand. His open palm, hardened by years of brutal training, struck Ghost’s jaw with a sickening crack, rattling his teeth. Ghost stumbled back, momentarily disoriented, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

Meanwhile, Velikan continued his silent, brutal work on Rodolfo. The larger man pressed down, systematically crushing the air from Rodolfo’s lungs. Rodolfo’s face was turning purple, eyes bulging, hands scrabbling weakly at Velikan’s forearms, which felt like iron bands. He managed a desperate kick to Velikan’s knee, but it was like kicking a tree trunk. Velikan simply adjusted his weight, the pressure on Rodolfo's throat never wavering.

Ghost shook his head, clearing the fog, his rage boiling to the surface. Mace was a mirror, but a twisted one. Every move he made, every feint, every counter, Ghost recognized, but Mace had imbued them with a viciousness, an unhinged frenzy that Ghost had long suppressed.

“You’ve gone soft, Simon,” Mace taunted, lunging again, his knife a silver blur. This time, he feinted low, then snapped high, aiming for Ghost’s neck.

Ghost ducked under the attack, the cold blade missing him by mere millimeters. He brought the Desert Eagle up, using it like a club, smashing the heavy butt-end into Mace’s metal skull mask. The impact rang out, a dull clang that vibrated through Ghost’s arm. Mace staggered, but didn't fall. He roared, a guttural sound of pure animalistic fury, and surged forward again, abandoning all pretense of finesse for sheer, overwhelming aggression.

He dropped his knife, seeing Ghost’s pistol was still a threat, and lunged for the weapon, grappling. Their bodies slammed together, two forces of nature colliding in the cramped corridor. Ghost fought for control of his pistol, Mace for its disarming. They spun, a whirlwind of fists, elbows, and knees, each blow delivered with the intent to incapacitate or kill.

Mace secured a hand on Ghost’s wrist, twisting it savagely. Ghost yelled, the Desert Eagle clattering to the ground. Mace seized the advantage, slamming his forearm into Ghost’s throat, pressing him back against the concrete wall. Ghost choked, Velikan’s attack on Rodolfo a mirror image playing out just meters away.

“No more games, Simon,” Mace hissed, his metal mask inches from Ghost’s face, his breath hot and reeking of stale metal and something else, something primal. “I’m taking you out. Just like you took out my humanity.”

Ghost, gasping for air, saw a glint of metal on the floor—Mace’s dropped knife. With a desperate surge of strength, he bucked, slamming his knee into Mace’s groin. Mace grunted, the blow connecting, but his hold on Ghost’s throat barely wavered. Still, it was enough. Ghost broke free just enough to twist, pulling Mace’s head down and smashing his own forehead—skull mask against skull mask—into Mace’s.

The double impact was jarring, bone-rattling. Mace staggered, giving Ghost a precious second. Ghost saw the fallen knife, rolled, and snatched it up, the familiar weight a comfort. He sprang back to his feet, a silent, deadly shadow, the knife held in a reverse grip.

“You want a fight, Mace?” Ghost growled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. “You got one.”

The fight recommenced with a renewed ferocity. Mace, now unarmed but still a formidable opponent, roared and charged, a blur of raw power. Ghost, lighter, faster, danced around him, a wraith in the narrow confines. The knife became an extension of his will, flashing, feinting, seeking openings.

Mace used his sheer bulk, trying to corner Ghost, to overpower him, to crush him. He threw wild, powerful punches, each one capable of shattering bone. Ghost weaved, parrying with his forearms, deflecting, always looking for a weakness. He plunged the knife forward, a quick, precise thrust aimed at Mace’s side. Mace shifted, the blade grazing his armored plate, a spark flying.

“Pathetic, Simon!” Mace mocked, closing the distance, grabbing Ghost’s knife arm. “You’ve gotten slow!”

He twisted Ghost’s arm, trying to disarm him. Ghost resisted, using his other hand to strike Mace’s face, specifically aiming for the narrow gap between the metal skull’s jaw and the neck, where the scarifications were. He connected with a brutal uppercut, knuckles scraping against the rough skin. Mace roared in pain and frustration, his grip loosening momentarily.

Ghost yanked his arm free, then used the momentum to drive the knife back, a swift, deep stab into Mace’s thigh. The blade sank in, eliciting a sharp gasp from Mace. Blood, dark and thick, immediately bloomed on his tactical pants.

Mace stumbled back, clutching his leg, his eyes through the mask filled with a renewed, seething hatred. “You think that hurts, Simon? You think a little scratch can stop me?” He pulled the knife from his leg in one swift, agonizing motion, his face contorted in a silent scream. He tossed the bloody blade aside, glaring at Ghost. “You never understood. Pain is just information.”

He charged again, limping, but with an even more desperate fury. He slammed into Ghost, carrying them both into the wall, pipes groaning under the impact. Ghost’s head hit the concrete, stars exploding behind his eyes, but he held on. They wrestled, two titans locked in a death grip, neither willing to yield. Fists flew, knees connected with ribs, elbows slammed into faces.

Rodolfo, meanwhile, had gone limp under Velikan’s crushing weight, his struggles ceasing. Velikan, seeing his victim no longer a threat, released his grip. Rodolfo lay gasping, wheezing, his lungs burning, his throat raw and bruised, fighting for every breath. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete as Velikan turned, his dark, silent gaze now fixing on Ghost and Mace, slowly closing the distance.

Ghost saw Velikan’s approach, a new surge of icy dread mixing with his exhaustion. He couldn't fight both of them. Mace, noticing the distraction, capitalized. He drove his head forward, headbutting Ghost, then shoved him hard against the wall. Ghost’s vision swam, his head ringing.

Mace, blood dripping from his leg, looked at Ghost, then at the incapacitated Rodolfo, and finally, at the door behind them. A dark, triumphant glee flickered in his eyes. “Looks like your mission ends here, Simon.” He raised his fist, preparing for a final, bone-shattering blow.

Ghost, battered and bruised, pushed through the pain, through the ringing in his head. He had to think, had to move. König was in there. Rodolfo was out. He met Mace’s gaze, a cold, unyielding resolve hardening his own features.

“Never. Again.” Ghost’s voice was a guttural snarl, echoing in the narrow corridor. He refused to let history repeat itself, refused to be a pawn in another man’s game, or to lose another comrade.

As Mace’s massive fist arced down, Ghost moved. It wasn't a dodge; it was a defiant lunge 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 the attack. He used his speed, twisting his body mid-air, grappling Mace’s wrist with a surprising burst of strength. He didn't try to stop the punch, but rerouted its energy, using Mace’s own momentum against him.

Mace’s blow, instead of connecting with Ghost’s skull, slammed into the concrete wall beside them with a sickening 𝘊𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘒. Dust and plaster exploded outwards. Mace roared, shaking his hand, the impact having jarred his own bones.

Ghost seized the momentary advantage. He spun, driving a knee hard into Mace’s already injured thigh, reopening the wound. Mace staggered back with a pained grunt, a fresh gush of blood darkening his pants. Ghost followed up, a rapid-fire succession of hammer fists aimed at Mace’s jawline, where the metal met flesh. 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘥. Each blow resonated with a brutal efficiency, making Mace’s head snap back, his stance momentarily broken.

For a terrifying second, Ghost had him. Mace was reeling, struggling to regain his footing, his vision likely blurred from the concussive blows. Ghost saw the opening, the brief flicker of vulnerability, and coiled for the kill.

But before he could unleash the decisive strike, a shadow fell over him. Velikan, silent as death, had closed the distance. A massive hand clamped down on Ghost's shoulder, twisting him around with effortless power. The air left Ghost's lungs in a pained gasp, his brief upper hand evaporating as he was flung against the opposite wall. His head connected again, a dull 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱, and the world spun. He tasted iron.

Mace, seeing his partner’s intervention, grinned darkly, a cruel, triumphant glint in his masked eyes. "That's it, Simon. Your little game is over." He raised his fist, limping slightly but with renewed vigor, ready to deliver that final, bone-shattering blow to the dazed Ghost.

Just as Mace's fist began its descent, the air shrieked, and a blur of dark motion erupted from the gloom of the corridor ahead. A heavy, metal-plated boot slammed into Mace's side with a sickening 𝘊𝘙𝘜𝘕𝘊𝘏, throwing the larger man off balance and sending him stumbling sideways into Velikan.

Mace roared in a mix of surprise and pain as he collided with his ally. Velikan, caught off guard, grunted, his attention ripped from Ghost. Both men turned to face their unexpected attacker.

Standing there, a silent, imposing figure, was Nikto. His armoured mask was a featureless void, his tactical gear a patchwork of dark menace. He simply stood, head tilted ever so slightly, the air around him crackling with an unnerving stillness.

Velikan’s low, gravelly voice cut through the sudden silence, laced with disbelief and raw fury. "Nikto! What the 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 are you doing here?! You were ordered to secure the perimeter! To deal with the 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 Task Force 141 operatives!" His massive frame tensed, every inch of him radiating menace.

Nikto’s head tilted further, a slow, deliberate movement that was more unnerving than any aggressive posture. His voice, when it came, was a low, raspy whisper, tinged with a thick Russian accent that seemed to slither through the mask's filter. "Velikan. My orders... dey have changed." He paused, his gaze, unseen, sweeping over the three of them. "I have decided to... svitch sides."

Velikan took a step forward, his fists clenching, the metal of his gauntlets groaning. "Switch sides?! Why the 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 would you do that, you insane bastard?!"

Nikto’s voice remained unnervingly calm, a terrifying contrast to Velikan’s rage. "The voices. They told me. Saving König... it benefits me. Simple as that."

A primal roar of pure, unadulterated fury tore from Velikan’s throat, and Mace, recovering from the kick, mirrored his partner’s enraged snarl. The air crackled with their combined wrath. They lunged simultaneously, a twin tide of destruction aimed at the traitorous Nikto.

But they were too late.

Even as Velikan and Mace surged forward, a whirlwind of motion exploded behind Nikto. Alex, a blur of speed, dove in with a brutal tackle, slamming into Velikan’s legs and bringing the hulking operative crashing down with a resounding 𝘛𝘏𝘜𝘋.

Simultaneously, Soap, a determined look plastered on his face, charged Mace, a flashbang already arcing through the air.

The flashbang detonated with a blinding 𝘊𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘒 and a searing white light, temporarily disorienting Mace. Soap capitalized instantly, driving a vicious elbow into Mace’s already injured thigh before spinning and landing a powerful kick to his chest, sending him staggering back.

Rodolfo, meanwhile, had been slowly, painfully dragging himself back to consciousness. The sight of Alex and Soap, of Ghost and even Nikto, fighting for their lives, ignited a fiery resolve in his bruised body. He pushed himself up, gasping for air, his throat raw, but a determined glint in his eyes. He grabbed a loose pipe from the wall, groaning as he moved, and limped into the fray, seeing Velikan struggling to rise from Alex's tackle.

The corridor erupted into a brutal, chaotic free-for-all. What had been a desperate 2-on-1 for Ghost was now a brutal 4-on-2, but Mace and Velikan were no ordinary opponents.

Velikan, still reeling from Alex's tackle, roared, shrugging off Soap's attempt to grapple him. He was a force of nature, a silent, relentless machine. He swung a massive punch at Alex, who ducked under it, only for Velikan’s other hand to lash out, catching Rodolfo’s pipe and wrenching it from his grip. Rodolfo cried out, his hands stinging. Velikan tossed the pipe aside and closed the distance on Alex, intent on crushing him.

Soap danced around Mace, peppering him with jabs and kicks, exploiting his limping gait. Mace, despite his injuries, was pure granite. He weathered the blows, trying to land a single, pulverizing punch, each grunt of pain fueling his rage.

Ghost, pushing past the throbbing agony in his head, saw Velikan cornering Alex. He moved, throwing himself at Velikan’s back. He wrapped his arms around Velikan’s neck, locking him in a chokehold, digging his knees into the back of Velikan’s thighs. Velikan roared, thrashing wildly, trying to dislodge Ghost like a persistent fly.

It was a combined effort that brought the silent behemoth down. Alex, now freed, ducked through Velikan’s flailing arms and drove a combat knife, salvaged from a fallen KorTac grunt, deep into Velikan’s unarmored side, twisting the blade. Velikan bellowed, a sound of agony and disbelief, his grip on Ghost’s arm loosening. Soap, seeing his chance, delivered a flying knee to Velikan’s head, staggering him. And then Rodolfo, his face a mask of determined fury, lunged with an abandoned piece of rebar, driving it with all his remaining strength into the back of Velikan’s knee, directly into an unprotected joint.

Velikan's leg buckled. The massive operative collapsed, Ghost still clinging to his neck, Alex's knife still buried in his side. Even as he fell, Velikan thrashed, but his movements grew weaker, slower. Ghost tightened his choke, feeling the last vestiges of life drain from the imposing figure. There was a final, ragged wheeze, a shuddering breath, and then Velikan went limp, his immense weight crushing Ghost slightly as he crumpled to the floor.

Mace, seeing his partner fall, let out a guttural scream of pure, unadulterated rage. He was a cornered animal, fighting with a renewed, desperate ferocity, but the numbers were too much. His injured leg screamed with every pivot, his vision still swimming from the flashbang. Soap was relentless, battering him, while Nikto, silent and deadly, moved with an unnerving grace, his movements aimed solely at inflicting maximum pain and creating openings.

A precisely aimed kick from Nikto connected with Mace’s uninjured knee, making it buckle. Soap followed up with a brutal uppercut that snapped Mace’s head back, staggering him. Mace stumbled, cursing, his eyes darting frantically between his attackers, then to a side door near the end of the corridor. He was beaten, but not broken. Not yet.

With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, Mace shoved Soap aside with a raw display of strength, ignoring the pain. He turned and limped, almost stumbled, through the shattered doorway he had entered from, disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors.

Before anyone could react, Nikto, without a single word or glance at his new allies, melted into the shadows, a silent predator giving chase.

Alex, panting, wiped a smear of blood from his cheek. He stared after Nikto, then back at the fallen Velikan, and finally at Ghost, who was slowly untangling himself from the dead operative. "Well, that was fucking weird," Alex muttered, shaking his head.

Soap, catching his breath and leaning against the wall, nodded. "Aye. You can say tha’ again."

Ghost pushed himself up, his body aching, his head pounding. He looked at Alex and Soap, then back at the empty space where Nikto had stood. "Wha’ were you two doing with Nikto?" he asked, his voice rough.

Alex shrugged, still trying to process the surreal turn of events. "He just... showed up out of nowhere. We were dealing with the KorTac squad and he just materialized, like a phantom, and helped us clear them out. Said he was going to 'correct an imbalance.' Next thing we know, he's leading us back to you guys."

Ghost grunted, his mind already racing. Nikto was a wildcard, notoriously unreliable, and terrifyingly unhinged. What his 'game' was, Ghost couldn't begin to guess. But he didn't have time to dwell on it. They had won this battle, but the war for König the was far from over.

"Doesn't matter now," Ghost said, pushing thoughts of Nikto's motives aside. "We won't have a lot of time before KorTac cavalry arrives. Let's move. We need to get to König. Now.”

“Right, let's get going.”

Ghost, Alex, Rodolfo and Soap moved with a renewed, grim purpose. The taste of victory over Velikan was sour, tainted by the knowledge of what awaited them. The corridors, once a battlefield, felt eerily silent, the distant sounds of ongoing skirmishes a dull thrum against the heavy silence of their own mission.

It took only a few feet before they reached the door to König’s cell, a formidable barrier—a solid slab of reinforced steel, almost seamless with the wall, punctuated by a small, high-tech keypad and what looked like a retinal scanner.

"Standard KorTac encryption," Alex grunted, already plugging into a hidden port. "A few layers, but nothing I haven’t seen before. Give me a minute."

“Copy tha’.” Ghost stood guard, his eyes sweeping the empty corridor, anticipating the inevitable reinforcement. Soap, meanwhile, paced, a nervous energy radiating from him as Rodolfo watched him, still trying to catch his breath. The silence of this particular section of the facility was more unsettling than any chaos. Every tick of Alex’s device, every whir of its internal components, felt like an eternity.

"Almost there," Alex muttered, his brow furrowed in concentration. A series of rapid beeps, then a final, resonant thunk. The red light flickered, then turned green. With a pneumatic hiss, the heavy door began to slide open, revealing the darkness within.

The first thing that hit them was the smell. A metallic tang of old blood, mingled with the cloying sweetness of decaying flesh and something acrid, almost chemically painful, that stung their nostrils. Then, the sight.

The room beyond was a black pit, devoid of light. For a terrifying second, all they saw was an oppressive void, the air thick with a metallic tang that made the hairs on their arms stand up. Then, Alex’s tactical light, followed by Soap’s and Ghost’s, cut through the gloom, revealing the nightmare within.

König hung from the ceiling, his hands bound together high above his head, the thick, rusted iron links digging deep into the flesh of his forearms, drawing fresh rivulets of crimson that snaked down his arms, joining older, dried streaks. His once pristine tactical gear was utterly destroyed; the fabric had been ripped, shredded, and burned away in places, exposing vast swathes of his pale skin.

And that skin… it was a canvas of pure, unadulterated suffering against the stark beams of their lights. Bruises bloomed in shades of purple and black, crisscrossed by angry red slashes, some still weeping sluggishly. Jagged, dark charred marks, the unmistakable signature of electrical torture, snaked across his ribs and thighs, blistered and weeping. His pants were torn to ribbons, barely clinging to his waist, revealing more wounds, more grime, more blood, both fresh and dried, caked to his body, mingling with dirt and other, unidentifiable fluids—dried vomit, excrement, signs of complete neglect and degradation. His hood, usually a shield against the world, was torn and displaced, barely clinging to the side of his head, revealing patches of matted, sweat-soaked hair and the beginning of a truly horrifying sight where his facial mask would normally be.

Soap’s breath hitched in his throat, a guttural sound that was half gasp, half retch. His stomach lurched violently, and he had to fight the urge to empty its contents onto the grimy floor. The pictures Hornagi had shown them, the cold, clinical photographs of König’s captivity, had been a cruel deception. They hadn’t captured the smell—the coppery stench of old blood, the sharp ozone of electrocution, the acrid tang of fear and despair. They hadn’t conveyed the visceral, sickening reality of seeing a man, a l̶o̶v̶e̶r̶ friend, reduced to this.

A tidal wave of guilt crashed over Soap. This was his fault. His doing. König had sacrificed himself, had walked willingly into this hell, to give Soap the opening he needed, to ensure he could escape. And this was the price. Every lash, every spark, every agonizing moment König had endured, felt like a spike driven into Soap’s own heart. Every scream, every plea, every drop of blood was on his hands.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second, the image of König’s sacrifice burned into his retinas, the shame and self-reproach a physical weight pressing him down. He felt the world tilt, the walls of the cell closing in, the smell of blood filling his head until he thought he would suffocate on his own guilt.

Ghost, however, did not spiral. For a moment, he was utterly still, the silence profound. Then, a low, guttural growl vibrated from deep within his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage that made the air crackle. He didn’t utter a word, didn’t waste a single second. With a blur of motion, he dropped his weapon, pulling his combat knife from its sheath, and surged forward towards König, his rage a tangible force. He went straight for the chains, his movements sharp, decisive, his masked face a mask of terrifying wrath.

Alex and Rodolfo, who had arrived moments after Soap and Ghost, stood frozen, their faces pale with shock and horror. The sight was truly something from a nightmare, a deliberate, calculated destruction of a human being. But Ghost’s sudden, violent movement shattered their paralysis.

“Rodolfo, Alex, get the hell in ere’!” Ghost barked, his voice raw, as he began hacking at the chains, his knife ringing against the metal. He wasn’t trying to be gentle; he was trying to tear the chains apart with sheer force.

Rodolfo, snapping back to his training, rushed forward immediately. He reached König, his gaze scanning the horrific tableau of injuries. “König? Can you hear me? Are you okay? Do you know where you are? Who you are?” he asked, his voice laced with desperate concern.

Silence.

König was awake. His eyelids were heavy, but open, revealing eyes that were nothing but vacant voids. There was no flicker of recognition, no spark of pain, no defiance, no emotion at all. Just an empty, hollow stare that looked through them, past them, into nothingness. He didn't flinch as Ghost’s knife scraped against the chains near his skin, didn’t react to Rodolfo’s gentle touch or urgent questions. He was present, yet completely absent.

Ghost, meanwhile, was already working on the chains, grunting with effort, trying to find a weak point, something to pry them open with, his hands fumbling slightly in his fury. Alex quickly joined him, pulling out a set of bolt cutters from his pack, their metallic snick echoing in the gruesome silence.

It took a few agonizing seconds, the sound of metal groaning as the cutters and Ghost’s knife bit through the rusted links. When the final chain snapped, König’s immense body didn't gently lower; it simply crashed, a horrifyingly dead weight, toward the floor. Ghost, anticipating it, twisted, catching the bulk of him, bracing his own legs, the impact rattling his teeth. König’s head lolled to the side, his breath a shallow, ragged rasp.

"Johnny!" Ghost barked, his voice raw, strained as he fought to stabilize König, whose entire frame was trembling from shock and pain. "Get over ere’!"

Soap, still frozen, still spiraling in his self-condemnation, barely registered the command. He was trapped in a nightmare loop of his own making, his mind replaying König's sacrifice again and again.

"Soap! 𝘕𝘰𝘸!" Ghost's voice cracked with an urgency that pierced through Soap's mental fog like a physical blow.

The sharp command jolted him, dragging him back into the horrific reality. "Right!" He stumbled forward, his own heart pounding against his ribs, the guilt still a heavy cloak, but the immediate crisis jolted him into action. He knelt beside Ghost, his hands hovering, unsure where to even touch the broken man. "Bloody hell, König… shit, this looks bad, Ghost. That's… that's a lot of blood. Is he… is he even breathing properly?" His voice was a panicked babble, the spiral threatening to consume him again.

"Not now!" Ghost snapped, his eyes fixed on König, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "We don't have time for you to be spiraling right now! Focus!"

The words were harsh, sharp, but Soap instantly understood. Ghost wasn’t just angry; he was terrified for König too, and he couldn't afford to worry about Soap's mental state on top of everything else. The immediate, desperate need to save König trumped all else. Soap bit back his anxieties, swallowing hard. "Aye, roger that," he mumbled, his hands moving, helping Ghost carefully ease König's mangled form onto his side, trying to keep pressure on the worst of the bleeds.

“König secured,” Alex announced into his comms, his voice tight, his own face grim as he finally looked away from the horrific scene. “He’s… in critical condition. We need immediate exfil and medevac.”

“Copy tha’. Begin heading towards exfil we’ll meet you there.”

“Alright,” Ghost said, his voice calmer now, but still tight with urgency. He quickly assessed König’s pale, unresponsive face. "Let's move," he ordered, his voice still tight with the rage and urgency that now drove him. "And someone cover his damn face. Rodolfo, arm him. Soap, you're on point. Alex, flank. We're not leaving him here."

With Soap and Rodolfo supporting König’s heavy, limp form, and Alex covering their rear, they turned and began making there way to the previously established exfil point, leaving the silent, blood-stained cell behind.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴! 𝘜𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦, 𝘥𝘢? 𝘊𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳!" Nikolai’s voice crackled over the comms, his thick Russian accent laced with urgency and dark amusement.

The distant 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱-𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱-𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘰 of rotor blades was a lifeline pushing them forward. The team, having united, moved in a tight formation—Price at the lead, Ghost and Soap practically carrying König between them, the rest flanking, rifles sweeping the halls for threats. The base was crawling with KorTac operators, their shouts and footsteps echoing through the dim corridors.

Gaz, breathless, keyed his mic as they rounded a corner. "𝘖𝘪, 𝘪𝘧 𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘪 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘐’𝘮 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘥-𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴."

Laswell barked a laugh, ducking as a spray of bullets nearly tore into the helicopter wall beside her. "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘥? 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥’𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘯 ‘09—𝘥𝘰𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘈𝘔𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘴!"

Ghost grunted, shifting König’s limp arm higher over his shoulder. "𝘍𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴! 𝘞𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺—𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘬!" Ghost spun, his rifle snapping up, dropping two KorTac operatives before they could fully round the corner.

Soap, panting, dragged König back as another wave rushed them. "𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦! 𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯’ 𝘣𝘰𝘹𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯!"

Price’s voice was steel. "𝘎𝘢𝘻, 𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪—𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦! 𝘗𝘶𝘴𝘩 ‘𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘙𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘧𝘰, 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘶𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩!"

The hallway erupted in gunfire, muzzle flashes illuminating the chaos. Rodolfo moved like a specter, his shots ruthless, precise. Horangi slid into cover, his rifle barking controlled bursts, forcing the enemy to duck. Gaz lobbed a flashbang around the corner, and the second it detonated, they surged forward.

"𝘌𝘹𝘧𝘪𝘭’𝘴 𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥—𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦!" Price roared.
The doors burst open, revealing the storm-wracked landing pad. Snow lashed down in sheets, wind howling as Nikolai’s chopper hovered, its floodlights cutting through the dark like a beacon. The gunners in the side doors were already lighting up the KorTac reinforcements pouring from the compound.

Nikolai’s voice boomed over the comms. "𝘈𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦! 𝘎𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘊𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯! 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘙𝘜𝘕!"

They sprinted, boots slamming against wet concrete. Bullets zipped past, one grazing Soap’s arm, but he barely felt it, his entire focus on keeping König upright. Ghost reached the chopper first, hauling himself inside before turning to yank König in with a pained grunt.

Price and the others made it next, diving into the cabin, but Gaz—

"𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦—𝘎𝘢𝘻!" Soap yelled.

Gaz had been forced to pivot, engaging a KorTac trooper who’d lunged from cover. He put two rounds in the man’s chest, but more were coming.

"𝘎𝘖!" he shouted, turning and sprinting.
The chopper was already lifting, Nikolai cursing in Russian as he kept it steady. "𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘷𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶!"

Gaz took a flying leap—

His fingers caught the edge of the deck. Roach and Alejandro dragged him in just as Nikolai banked sharply, rounds pinging off the hull.

"𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯? 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥! 𝘏𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘷𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨!" Nikolai whooped, jerking the chopper into a near-vertical climb.

Gaz wheezed, sprawled on the floor. "𝘐 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵, 𝘕𝘪𝘬—"

The explosion cut him off.

A deafening 𝘉𝘖𝘖𝘔 rocked the air, the shockwave rattling the chopper like a toy. The team whipped around in time to see half of KorTac’s base vanish in a fireball, the blast radius swallowing everything in its path. Secondary detonations rippled through the compound, sending plumes of smoke and debris spiraling into the night.

Nikolai whistled. "Ah. Must have hit their ammo dump on way out. Very efficient."

Roach, gripping a handhold for dear life, shot him a look. "You shot their goddamn armory on the way in?!"

Nikolai grinned. "Da. Insurance."

Soap, crouched beside König’s still form, exhaled shakily. The adrenaline was fading, leaving his hands trembling. König’s breathing was shallow, but steady—alive, if barely. Ghost met his gaze, and for the first time since they'd found him, something unspoken passed between them.
Relief.

Gaz groaned, hauling himself upright. "Next time, I’m driving."

Nikolai chuckled, banking hard to evade another volley of tracers. "No one drives like Nikolai, my friend!"

Alejandro shook his head. "Madman."

Ghost, still gripping König’s wrist as if afraid he’d vanish, just muttered, "Get us home."

The chopper roared into the storm, leaving the flames in their wake. “As you wish, Ghost. I have to say I’m glad—”

The celebration was cut short by a sharp, insistent 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 from the rear of the cabin. Laswell, her face illuminated by the glow, was hunched over her ruggedized laptop, her fingers flying across the keys. Her brow was furrowed in confusion.

“Nikolai,” she said, her voice cutting through the rotor wash. “What was the ordnance signature on that explosion?”

“Signature? Is big boom, Kate. What more do you need?”

“Because this,” she said, tapping the screen, “wasn’t a chain reaction from a stray rocket. The seismic and thermal readings… this was a targeted, synchronized demolition. Pre-placed charges. Military-grade.”

A heavy silence fell over the cabin, thick enough to muffle the engine's roar. Soap, crouched beside König’s still form, looked up from checking the Austrian’s pulse. Ghost’s hand, which had been resting on König’s shoulder, slowly drifted back to his rifle. Gaz and Alejandro exchanged a wary glance.

The quiet was shattered by a burst of static from Laswell’s console, resolving into a clear, familiar voice that dripped with smug, southern charm.

“Well, howdy there, ladies and gentlemen. Kate. You miss me?”

Every head snapped towards the laptop. On the screen, a video feed resolved. It showed a man leaning back in a chair, the silhouette of a high-tech office behind him. He was wearing a crisp, dark suit, a Stetson shadowing his features, but the smirk was unmistakable.

“Graves,” Ghost’s voice was a low, venomous growl. His knuckles were white where he gripped his weapon. “Laswell, if you’re tracking this signal, send in a missile strike. 𝘕𝘰𝘸.”

On the screen, Graves chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He adjusted his hat. “Now, Ghost, that’s not nice. And it’s certainly no way to thank the fella who just saved your bacon. Again.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Price snarled, moving to look over Laswell’s shoulder.

“The fireworks display, Captain. Hope you enjoyed the view from your skybox. My compliments to the chef.” Graves leaned forward, his face coming into the light. The smirk was still there, but his eyes were cold, calculating. “KorTac was getting a little too big for its britches. Started thinking they could play in my sandbox. Had to be reminded of the pecking order.”

The truth landed in the cabin like a live grenade. It wasn't Nikolai’s insurance. It was Graves’.

“You…” Soap breathed, the word barely audible.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Laswell,” Graves said, his tone shifting to something resembling professional courtesy. “The agreed-upon data packet has been transferred. Do check your secure server. Always a pleasure.”

The transmission cut out, leaving only the vibrating hum of the helicopter and the stunned silence of its occupants.

All eyes were on Laswell. Gaz was the first to find his voice, his earlier nausea replaced by a fresh wave of disbelief. “Kate… wha’ did he mean ‘agreed-upon’?”

Laswell slowly closed the lid of her laptop. She met Price’s hard, questioning stare, then looked around at the faces of the team—Soap’s confusion, Ghost’s icy fury, Alejandro’s deep suspicion.

She let out a long, weary breath, the kind that comes from carrying a terrible weight alone. “The mission parameters changed the moment we realized KorTac had a mole inside Six,” she stated, her voice even but tired. “We were compromised before we even inserted. We needed an edge they would never see coming. Someone with the resources, the inside knowledge, and a vested interest in seeing KorTac humbled.”

“So you made a deal with a 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳?” Ghost’s voice was dangerously quiet.

“I made a deal with a pragmatist,” Laswell corrected, though she didn’t flinch from his gaze. “His betrayal was always business, Price. Not ideology. This was business, too. Like it or not, we needed his help. König is alive because of it. You’re all 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 because of it.”

The cabin fell silent again, the moral victory of their escape now tarnished, complicated by the acrid smell of a deal with the devil. They had survived. They had won. But as Nikolai pushed the chopper through the storm-tossed night, the flames of the KorTac base shrinking behind them, the team was left with a cold, unsettling truth: their world had just gotten a lot more gray.

Ghost finally broke the silence, his voice a low rumble directed at the darkened windows and the man who had just vanished from them. “This isn’t over.”
In an office thousands of miles away, Phillip Graves smiled to himself. He knew it wasn't.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks later, the sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air in a hushed corner of a classified hospital. Natural light was a luxury, replaced by the cool, unforgiving glow of fluorescent fixtures. Dr. Aliyah Khan, her face etched with a quiet concern, adjusted her glasses as she reviewed a tablet. Beside her, Laswell stood, her usual composure frayed at the edges.

"Thirty-five percent of his body is covered in scar tissue. Second-degree burns on his back and arms. X-rays show at least 12 fractures that never properly healed and that’s just the top of the page." Khan gestured with the tablet, the screen displaying grim anatomical diagrams. She paused, then looked towards the reinforced glass observation window. "He's lucky to be alive, Laswell. Truly. Any normal man would have perished from the initial trauma alone, let alone the conditions of his captivity."

Laswell nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the figure beyond the glass. König. He lay perfectly still on the hospital bed, a ghostly pale contrast to the white sheets. His massive frame, usually so imposing, seemed diminished and vulnerable. Wires snaked from monitoring equipment, forming a silent ballet around him. His face, what little could be seen around the bandages, was unsettlingly blank. Even his breathing, shallow and even, lacked the robust rhythm of a man recovering.

“Laswell, I'd like you to prepare yourself.” Dr. Khan’s voice was gentle, but her words were a hammer blow. “The König you lost… might not be the one you found."

Laswell tore her eyes from König, turning back to the doctor. "What do you mean? Is there brain damage? The initial scans were clear."

"His head is fine, physically," Khan confirmed, her voice softening further. "No concussions, no cranial fractures, no signs of lasting neurological damage we can detect. But emotionally… psychologically…" She trailed off, then continued with a heavy sigh. "He hasn't spoken, he hasn't eaten on his own, he hasn't so much as acknowledged his own condition. He just… exists." Her eyes found Laswell's, filled with a deep, professional sadness. "Laswell, the only other time I've seen that kind of look, it's in soldiers much like him. Men who’ve seen the abyss and chosen to stay there. And plenty of them never came back. Just… prepar yourself. And your men."

“...Understood.”

The days that followed could only be described as pure torture.

It was the fifth day since König had been allowed visitors and inside the room, the silence was a suffocating blanket. Gaz, after days of working up the nerve to visit, entered cautiously. He pulled a chair close to König’s bed, the plastic scraping softly on the tiled floor.

"Hey, big man," Gaz began, his voice surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to his usual boisterous energy.. "I’m not sure if you can hear me… but, uh, I figured it might help you to remember the good stuff before…everythin’ tha’ happened. So, uh, here it goes. You remember tha’ time…”

Gaz talked for what felt like hours, talking about memories, what he’s been doing since König was gone, what the weather was like—anything to fill the never ending silence. He waited and hoped for a single movement, a flicker of reconition to pass by on König’s features, but with each minute that passed that hope died.

König’s eyes, staring at a fixed point on the ceiling, didn't flicker. His chest rose and fell with the rhythmic hiss of a ventilator assisting his breathing, but otherwise, he was a statue. Despite that, Gaz talked for nearly an hour, continuing to recount old missions, sharing stories, even reading out a few lines from a book he knew König enjoyed reading. Nothing. Not a twitch, not a sigh, not a hint of recognition. Eventually, Gaz, his shoulders slumped, stood up to make his leave. "We're ere’ for you, mate. Whenever you're ready." He left, the disappointment heavy in his steps.

Later, Ghost appeared at the observation window like he has been ever since König was brought to the hospital, his masked face impassive, his eyes scanning König's lifeless form. He didn't enter the room, didn't speak to the doctors or nurses. He simply stood there for a long time, a silent sentinel, his presence a stark, enduring shadow. He watched the lines on the monitors, the IV drip, the rise and fall of König's chest. Whatever thoughts churned behind his skull, they remained locked away, shared only with the glass separating him from the man who was once a formidable ally. A… a friend. Then, after about an hour or so, as silently as he'd arrived, Ghost dissapeared from the sterile hallway until he would return the next day.

Only two men held a near constant presence with König: Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish and Sergeant Kim ‘Horangi’ Hong-jin. Horangi, usually a blur of controlled aggression, sat with a quiet solemnity, his eyes fixed on König. He'd try a different approach each time—sometimes speaking in low, rumbling Korean, sometimes gently prodding König's hand, trying to coax a response. Like Gaz, he’d brought items: a well-worn German book, a small, intricate puzzle that König had once spent days solving. The results were always the same: an unwavering, unsettling silence.

But it was Soap who truly suffered. He refused to leave König’s room for long, subsisting on hospital coffee and the occasional protein bar. His eyes were perpetually bloodshot, his movements stiff from lack of sleep. He talked to König constantly, a desperate, one-sided monologue.

"Könny, Big man, come on," Soap would plead, his voice raw. He’d sit by the bed, often holding König's hand, trying to inject some warmth, some life, into the barely warm, unresponsive skin. "Remember tha’ time I showed you my art? You thought tha’ it was amazin’ even though it was nothin’ special." He'd pause, searching König’s vacant eyes for any spark. "I miss tha’, mate. I miss you."

The guilt ate at Soap like acid. Every moment of König’s silence was a fresh accusation. He replayed their last mission over and over in his head. The betrayal. The chaos. The moment König took another life in exchange for his. If he had just been faster. If he hadn’t been caught. If he hadn’t been so blinded by rage and seen the truth.

"It's my fault, König," he'd whisper, tears pricking his eyes. "Should've seen it coming. Should've protected you better. I should've… I should've done something." He'd clench his fists, the frustration and overwhelming sorrow a physical ache in his chest. "Just… say somethin’, anything. Yell at me. Call me a Blödmann. Just… be ere’." He longed for the old König, the towering, socially awkward, but fiercely caring and incredibly skilled soldier. He yearned to go back in time, to unwind the moments that had led to this. To change everything.

Days bled into a week, then another. Soap was a ghost of himself, his usually vibrant spirit dimmed by the suffocating weight of his guilt. Horangi, seeing the toll it was taking, tried to gently nudge him out for the sake of König, but Soap was unmovable.

Finally, Gaz and Roach intervened. They found Soap slumped in the uncomfortable visitor's chair, staring blankly at König for once alone without Horangi.

"Soap. Come on, mate," Gaz said gently, placing a hand on Soap's shoulder. "Let's get some proper food in you. Stretch your legs."

Soap barely registered their presence. "He needs me," he mumbled, his voice hoarse. "Wha’ if he wakes up an’ I'm not ere’?"

"He hasn't woken in two weeks, Johnny," Roach said, his tone kind but firm. "He's not gonna miss five minutes while you grab a coffee. You're no good to him like this. You're exhausted."

It took a combined effort, but they eventually convinced him to leave the room. The cafeteria, with its muted chatter and the clatter of cutlery, felt alien after the tomb-like silence of König’s chamber. Gaz and Roach guided him to a quiet table in the corner, pressing a steaming mug of black coffee into his hands.

"Alright, mate. Talk to us," Gaz urged, his voice soft but unwavering.

Soap stared into his coffee, steam curling around his face. "What's there to talk bout’? He's broken. An’ it's my fault." His voice cracked on the last two words.

"It's not your fault, Soap," Roach said immediately, leaning forward. "None of us saw KorTac’s betrayal. And none of exoected him to save you after. You did everything you could, we all did."

"I should've known," Soap insisted, his voice thick with emotion. "I should've seen it. I was always with him, I could read him like a book, I should’ve known he would..." He slammed his fist lightly on the table, making the coffee cup jump. "I just want him back. The big, quiet, scary bastard who always had my back. I want to go back in time an’ just… stop it all." Tears welled in his eyes, hot and sudden, tracing paths down his grimy cheeks. "He won't eat, Gaz. He won't even… he won't even look at me. The doctors say there's nothing wrong with his head, but he's just… not there. They have to give him nutrients through a tube, for Christ's sake."

Gaz reached across the table, squeezing Soap’s arm. "Hey. It's not your fault. You hear me? This isn't on you. König's a survivor, Soap. He's been through worse than most men could imagine. He'll find his way back. One way or another."

"He's gotta," Roach added, his gaze earnest. "We all need him. You especially. Take some pressure off yourself, mate. You did good. We all did."

Soap wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, the hot coffee a small comfort against the cold despair. "I just wish I knew," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, "I just wish I knew wha’ was goin’ on in his head."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Wha’ if he wakes up an’ I'm not ere’?"

"He hasn't woken in two weeks, Johnny," Roach said, his tone kind but firm. "He's not gonna miss five minutes while you grab a coffee. You're no good to him like this. You're exhausted."

“But—”

“If you don’t take care of yourself you’ll end up in your own hospital bed an’ won’t be able to see König for who knows how long. Its just for a couple o’ minutes, Soap. Please.” Gaz pleaded.

“I— fine. You both win.” A shift of fabric as Soap stood and turned to the hospital bed. “I’ll be back König. Just… wait for me.” Soap’s words, a desperate echo, seemed to pierce through the sterile air, ricocheting, somehow, into the silent, shadowed corners of König’s mind.

In the deep, dark chasm where König resided, a flicker ignited. Not a conscious thought, not quite a memory, but a sudden, visceral sensation of warmth, of small, trusting hands, and a whisper of a name—Johnny. And then, a door creaked open, not into the past, but into a reconstruction of it, played out in the mind’s hollow theater.

The first thing that registered was a woman's anguished wails echoed through a room, her pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. König's eyes fluttered open, blinking against the dim light that filtered through the grimy curtains of their small apartment. His gaze landed on his mother, huddled in the corner, much like his small body which trembled on the other side of the room as he watched his father rain brutal blows upon his mother. The sound of flesh connecting with flesh, the sickening thuds, were like a twisted lullaby, lulling the five-year-old into a state of paralysis.

Bruises already marred his mother's face, turning her fair skin a mottled array of blues and yellows. Fresh welts rose like phoenixes from the onslaught, each one a testament to his father's unrelenting fury. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the acrid tang of sweat and fear.

"Bitte, Bitte... stop it," she whimpered, her words punctuated by ragged breaths. "Not in front of our son, bitte."

But his father wouldn't listen, wouldn't see reason. His blow came swift and hard, a brutal smash that sent König's mother crashing to the floor. She curled into a ball, shielding her head from the onslaught, her screams muffled and weak.

König's heart clenched at the sight of his mother's battered form, but he remained frozen, unable to move or speak. He whimpered, pressing himself into the corner, his small body shaking with fear. He knew better than to make a sound, knew that if he did, the yelling and hitting would only get worse. So he bit his lip, stifling his sobs, his big brown eyes wide with terror as he watched his father brutalize the woman who was supposed to love and protect him.

"Shut up, whore," his father hissed, his voice low and menacing. "You think you can get it better with some other man?" his father spat, his words dripping with contempt. "Pathetic whore. You'll learn your place."

König's mother sobbed, her protests dwindling to panicked gasps as she tried to shield her battered body. "I'm not cheating, Hans! He was just a friend—"

"Shut up!" His father's hand cracked across her face, snapping her head to the side. "I don't want to hear your lies. You're nothing but a tramp. A cheap fuck to him, just like you are to me!”

König's mother shook her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm not cheating, Hans. Bitte, just stop. This isn't fair to our son!"

"Fair?" The word was a snarl. "You want to teach our boy to be weak, is that it? To believe life is fair? Do you want to teach him to break down and cry like you? Pathetic! Men don't cry, they don't whine. You need to be taught a lesson for your insulience."

With those words, his father's fist connected with König's mothers jaw once more, snapping her head back. His mothers eyes widened in shock as she stumbled backwards, her hands flying up to protect her face.

The blows continued, relentless and punishing. Only getting worse as new tactics were used to punish her. König's mother lay in a crumpled heap, her face a bloody mess, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to protect herself from each blow—to stay conscious.

And despite knowing better, at that moment König couldn’t stay quiet. He knew he should, that it was safer, but seeing his mother fighting for her life tore a cry past his lips.

"Mama, no!" König wailed, his voice cracking with desperation. He scrambled to his feet, arms flailing as they hit his fathers legs, but his father paid him no mind. The whip of a belt sang through the air, cutting across his mother's back as she shrieked and bucked beneath the onslaught.

"Shut up, you little brat!" his father snarled, his face twisted in a mask of fury. “Stay out of this and watch. You're going to learn to beat your whores when they cross you.”

König's mother, a sobbing, crumpled mess, insisted she wasn't cheating but her words were drowned out by the symphony of pain and rage. Her words fell on deaf ears as his father's buckle dug cruelly into her ribs, his knuckles cracking against her jaw with a sickening crunch.

As his mother's cries escalated to bloodcurdling screams, König's pleas grew more frantic. "Father, bitte! Stop! I don't like this!"

But his father's patience had worn thin. With a growl, he struck König’s face, sending him tumbling to the ground. Fresh blood poured from his nose, his ears ringing as he coughed. His father, as König tried to regain his balance, stormed over to him, lifting him by the scruff of his neck. "Shut up, you crybaby! Look at what your mother has taught you! Men don't cry. It’s time I taught you that. You're gonna be a real man, just like me!"

König kicked and flailed, but his father's grip was unyielding. With a savage twist, he hauled the helpless boy across his knee, König's thin legs flailing as he was bent over in an awkward, painful position. The first blow landed with a resounding smack, echoing through the small room. König's scream was cut short as his fathers belt came down again and again, each strike vicious and unyielding.

His mother's screams reached a fever pitch, and König's world blurred and went dark as a fist connected with his face in an attempt to silence him, and then he was being tossed, his mother's arms catching him as he crumpled to the ground.

When consciousness returned, he was cradled in a comforting warmth.

His eyes fluttered open, the bright sunlight from his bedroom window almost blinding him. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze from his vision. A warm, gentle hand stroked his hair, and he turned his head to see his mother's tired but loving face. Tears glistened in her eyes as she whispered, "Shhh, Anton, it's okay. You're safe now."

Memories of the chaotic scene that had unfolded before his blacking out flooded back in a jumbled mess. The woman's anguished cries, his father's thunderous voice, the searing pain as rough hands struck his small body... He squeezed his eyes shut, a sob wracking his tiny frame. He didn't understand why his father had hurt him like that. Why he had to be so mean?

"Anton, mein Schatz," his mother cooed, gently rubbing his back. "You're a brave boy. You handled it so well, didn't you?" She smiled through her tears, trying to reassure him.

König sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He looked up at her, his dark eyes wide and uncertain. "Momma, why did father do that? I don't like when he yells and hits."

She hesitated, searching for the right words. "I know, Liebling. Your father was just very angry. He... he has a hard time controlling his temper sometimes." Her voice trembled, and she bit her lip.

König's brow furrowed, not quite buying her explanation. "But he shouldn't hurt you or me. You said he loves us."

"We know he does, sweetie," she soothed, pulling him closer. "But sometimes people make mistakes. Your father was scared to lose me, and he didn't know how else to deal with it. That doesn't excuse what he did, and I'm sorry you had to see that."

König was quiet for a moment, processing her words. He nuzzled into her warmth, seeking comfort. His mother stroked his hair, her touch a soothing balm to his battered soul.

Just then, a voice echoed in König's mind, its tone cold and detached. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥.

König flinched, the sudden intrusion making him tense. But it was fleeting, as his mother's gentle ministrations drew him back into the present.

As if sensing the shift, his mother's gaze softened even further. She gazed at her son with a mix of love and resolve. "But we're going to make things better, okay, Anton? You and me, together. We'll face whatever comes our way, and we'll always have each other."

𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘴.

𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘴.

𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘴.

𝙇𝙞𝙚𝙨.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? The words hung heavy in the warmth of his mothers arms, a bleak prophecy that would shape König's future.

Two years later the prophecy began its cruel unraveling, manifesting in the sharp sting of betrayal and the dull ache of constant fear. König, a gangly, often-silent boy of seven, pumped his short legs, each stride a desperate plea for escape. His lungs burned, a raw, fiery knot tightening in his chest, as the familiar, jeering cries of the neighborhood boys echoed relentlessly behind him.

"Freak! Monster! Ugly crybaby!" they shrieked, their voices weaving a menacing chorus that drove him forward, faster, though he felt his small body rapidly running out of fuel. His brow was slick with sweat, his eyes wide and unfocused, blurred by the frantic effort and the hot prick of unshed tears. The thudding of his own heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the relentless drum of their pursuing footsteps. He glanced back, a flash of blurred, hostile faces, older and stronger, their grins wide and cruel. He couldn't outrun them, not this time. Not ever, it felt like.

A desperate instinct screamed at him. He veered sharply, without thinking, down a narrow alleyway he’d never noticed before. The air instantly grew cooler, heavy with the scent of damp brick and stale garbage, and the sunlight barely penetrated the canyon of grimy buildings. He pushed harder, hoping for a hidden exit, a miracle. But the alley narrowed further, the high brick walls closing in until, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, he saw it: a dead end. A solid, unyielding brick wall, stained with graffiti and choked with shadows. He skidded to a halt, panting, his shoulders heaving, the bitter taste of defeat coating his tongue.

The pursuing footsteps, heavier now, advanced into the alley. He heard their low, satisfied chuckles first, then saw them fan out, blocking the entrance. There were three of them, led by the hulking figure of Thomas, a boy two years his senior with a cruel glint in his eyes. Thomas’s lips curled into a sneer. "Gotcha, freak. Nowhere to run now, huh?"

Panic seized König, turning his blood to ice. He pressed himself against the rough brick wall, seeking a phantom solace it couldn't provide. Thomas stepped forward, a menacing shadow, and shoving König hard, sent him stumbling. His head cracked against the brick, not hard enough to knock him out, but a sharp, blinding pain that sent stars dancing across his vision. Before he could recover, a fist slammed into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a choked gasp. He doubled over, the world spinning, and then a flurry of kicks rained down. One caught his shin, searing pain shooting up his leg; another landed squarely on his back, sending him sprawling onto the gritty ground, scraping his knees and elbows raw.

He curled into a tight ball, trying to shield his head, whimpering softly. He felt a boot connect with his side, then another. The world became a kaleidoscope of pain and muffled sounds—the grunts of his attackers, their delighted taunts, the harsh rasp of his own breathing. He tasted blood, a metallic tang on his tongue, realizing his lip was split. A shoe pressed into his cheek, grinding his face against the cold, littered concrete. He squeezed his eyes shut, a silent plea for it to stop, for the world to simply fade away. Each impact was a fresh wave of agony, a reminder of his helplessness, of the constant vulnerability that seemed to cling to him like a shadow. They finally pulled back, leaving him a bruised, shivering heap, his body throbbing with a thousand tiny fires.

As he lay there, gasping, broken, the familiar, cold voice echoed in his mind, cutting through the agony with brutal clarity.

𝘚𝘦𝘦? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶? 𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘪𝘵? 𝘈 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘠𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵. 𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘫𝘰𝘺, 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦, 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.

The alley shifted, the cold, dark gloom receding as a new warmth engulfed him. The first thing he registered was the light. Soft, scattered, filtering through crisp white curtains, painting the hospital room in a gentle, almost ethereal glow. Eight-year-old König, small for his age but already showing the promise of his future height, stood by the gurney, clutching a worn-out toy soldier. The air smelled of antiseptic, but beneath it, something sweeter, softer—milk and baby powder. His mother, her face tired but radiant, lay propped up in the bed, a tiny bundle swaddled in blue blankets held carefully in her arms.

"Anton, come here, mein Schatz," she murmured, her voice soft and gentle. She beckoned him closer with a trembling finger. He approached cautiously, his brow furrowed with curiosity and a touch of apprehension. He'd never seen a baby this close before. His mother gently adjusted the blanket, revealing a tiny, perfect face, all soft skin and closed eyelids. His brother. He was a small, almost impossibly red bundle, with a squished-up nose and a few wisps of dark hair. König found himself staring, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. He was so... 𝘯𝘦𝘸. And a little bit strange-looking, like a tiny, sleepy alien wrapped in a blanket. He didn't really 𝘥𝘰 anything, just lay there, breathing softly. "This is Matthias," his mother whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. "Your little brother."

König stared, transfixed. Matthias was so small, so utterly fragile. He reached out a hesitant finger, touching the impossibly soft cheek. A warmth bloomed in his chest, a feeling so pure, so uncomplicated, that it stole his breath. This tiny person, this precious bundle, was his. And he would protect him. He smiled, a wide, genuine grin that transformed his serious young face.

His mother, watching his face, chuckled softly, a sound like rustling leaves. "Oh, Anton, just you wait," she began, her gaze drifting between her two sons, her eyes brimming with a love so vast it seemed to fill the room. "Soon, Matthias will be bigger. Not as big as you, not for a while, but big enough. You'll teach him all your games, won't you? You'll build the most magnificent sandcastles down by the lake, and he’ll try to knock them over, and you'll laugh. You'll run through the park, two little comets, chasing after each other, and when one of you scrapes a knee, the other will be there with a comforting word. I can see it already, you sharing your secrets, whispering under the covers long after bedtime, two peas in a pod."

She paused, taking a slow, deep breath, her hand lightly stroking Matthias's head. "You'll always have each other, my boys. The very best of friends, a bond that nothing can ever break. You'll love each other so fiercely, a love that will grow with every passing year. And when you're older, you'll still be there for one another, always. My heart… my heart is so full, Anton. I never thought I could be this happy, to have both my boys here, together." A tear, not of sorrow but of profound joy, escaped her eye and traced a path down her cheek. "Just look at you two," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "my two handsome boys. So perfect together, already. It's truly a sight to behold."

She shifted slightly, carefully, to make space on the bed beside her. "Come closer, mein Schatz," she urged, patting the mattress gently. "Sit down here with me." König, still holding his toy soldier, carefully climbed onto the edge of the bed, his movements precise, as if any sudden jolt might disturb the delicate balance of this new, sacred space. He sat, his small body rigid with anticipation, his eyes still fixed on Matthias's slumbering face. The scent of baby powder was stronger here, mingled with a faint, sweet milkiness that made his stomach rumble softly, but he paid it no mind. His world had shrunk to this small, swaddled form.

His mother smiled, a knowing, gentle smile. "He feels safe with you nearby, I can tell," she said softly. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she gently adjusted the blanket around Matthias, ensuring his tiny head was well supported. Her gaze met König’s, and in her eyes, he saw not just love, but a deep trust. "Anton," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "would you like to hold your little brother?"

König’s breath hitched. Hold him? The thought sent a jolt of both excitement and terror through him. He looked from Matthias’s impossibly small form to his own big, clumsy hands. What if he dropped him? What if he hurt him? His brow furrowed again, a tiny crease of worry appearing between his eyebrows. He swallowed hard. The toy soldier felt suddenly heavy in his grasp. He hesitated, his eyes darting frantically between his mother’s calm, reassuring face and the peaceful baby.

"It's alright, mein liebling," his mother soothed, sensing his trepidation. "I'll help you. You'll be very careful, I know."

The desire, an overwhelming, primal urge to hold this tiny being, quickly eclipsed his fear. He wanted to feel the warmth, the softness, to truly know that Matthias was real and truly his. He looked back at his mother, a silent question in his eyes, and then, with a barely perceptible nod, he whispered, "Yes. Ja, Mama. I want to."

His mother’s smile widened, radiating warmth. She slowly, carefully, began to transfer the precious bundle. "Alright, Anton. Here, put your hands like this," she instructed gently, guiding his small, eager hands to form a cradle. "One hand for his bottom, the other supporting his head, like a little pillow. That's it. Be very, very gentle."

Slowly, tenderly, Matthias was lowered into König’s waiting arms. The weight was surprisingly heavy. König’s arms instinctively tightened, just enough to be secure, but never too much. The warmth of the tiny body radiated through the blue blanket, a living, breathing heat against his own skin. He could feel the feather-light flutter of Matthias’s chest with each soft, shallow breath. The baby shifted, a tiny sigh escaping his lips, and a minuscule hand, no bigger than König’s thumb, uncurled slightly from the swaddle, resting against his arm.

König looked down at his brother, his entire being consumed by the moment. Matthias’s face was even closer now, the delicate eyelashes like faint brushstrokes against his little cheeks, the rosebud mouth slightly parted. A new feeling, potent and immediate, washed over König. It wasn't just warmth or protectiveness; it was an explosion of pure, unadulterated love. It was as if a missing piece of his heart had finally slotted into place. In that instant, holding his brother, König understood everything. This was not just a baby; this was his responsibility, his joy, his forever. He would move mountains for this little person, fight dragons, face any fear.

A soft, utterly adoring smile spread across König’s face. He gently, tentatively, brought his cheek down to rest against Matthias’s soft, blanketed head, inhaling the sweet, pure scent of new life. He was instantly, irrevocably in love. This wasn't just happiness. This wasn't just family. This was the very core of his existence, everything he never knew he needed, all cradled in his small, suddenly capable arms.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴—𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦—𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶. The thought, cold and sharp, sliced through the warmth, echoing in the cavern of his mind.

The light in the hospital room twisted, darkening, the gentle glow replaced by the harsh, flickering overhead lights of a different room, a different floor, years later. It was a small, cramped bedroom down the narrow hall of his mothers apartment where a now ten-year-old König thrashed in his sleep. His nightmare had been a swirl of shadows and echoing shouts, of a looming, faceless figure reaching for Matthias, then for his mother, and finally, for him, pulling him into a dark, bottomless pit. He woke with a gasp, his chest heaving, the phantom chill of the dream still clinging to him. The silence of his small room, usually a comfort, now felt vast and empty, filled only with the lingering chill of the dream. His mouth was desert-dry, his throat tight with a fear he couldn’t name, only feel. He needed water.

Slipping out from under his thin blanket, he padded barefoot across the cold linoleum floor to his bedroom door. The house was usually quiet at this hour, long past midnight. But tonight, a low, guttural murmur drifted from the kitchen—his mother’s voice, a tight, controlled sound he rarely heard. Curiosity, stronger than his fear of the dark, pulled him forward.

He crept down the short hallway, the familiar layout of their cramped apartment feeling alien, stretched thin by the late hour. As he neared the kitchen doorway, a murmur, clipped and sharp, laced with a tremor that set his teeth on edge was heard. He paused just outside, half-hidden by the doorframe, his tall frame melting into the shadows.

The kitchen, usually a warm, cluttered space, was bathed in the harsh, flickering overhead lights. It felt less like their home and more like a different room, a stark, unwelcoming place. His mother stood by the window, her back to him, silhouetted against the dark glass, a phone pressed so tightly to her ear her knuckles were white. She was pacing, a restless tiger in a too-small cage, her movements jerky and agitated.

Her voice, usually a gentle melody, was a low, furious hiss, barely audible, but the words still found their way to him, sharp shards of ice that pierced the fragile calm he’d hoped to find in the quiet house.

“How much longer, Doctor?” she pleaded, her voice cracking. Her shoulders were hunched, a posture König knew well, the one she adopted when carrying the weight of the world after father left. “How much more can you possibly want? I told you, I can’t. I simply 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 afford it! We’ve already maxed out everything, Dr. Richter. The insurance barely covers the basics, and you know that! I’m working three jobs, barely keeping a roof over our heads, and you want more? Another visit? Another course of medication?”

She stopped, pressing the phone harder to her ear, listening. König imagined the doctor’s calm, detached voice on the other end, laying out the grim necessities, the escalating costs. He remembered visits to the hospital, the smell of disinfectant, the hushed voices, the way Matthias looked, so much smaller and paler than he should be.

“I understand it’s critical,” his mother spat, her voice rising, losing its fragile control. “Do you think I don’t understand? Do you think I 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 him to suffer? Matthias needs this, I know, but where is it supposed to come from? Am I supposed to sell the very ground we stand on? To live in a car? To let us starve so he can… so he can maybe have another few months?” Her breath hitched, ragged and painful. “You think I don’t want to save my son? Gott damn you all! Gott damn this whole rotten system that lets children die because their parents aren’t rich enough!”

The phone clattered against the wall as she slammed it down with a force that made König flinch, his jaw tightening. The digital screen, briefly, glowed a stark, angry red before fading to black. Her hands flew to her face, burying themselves in her hair, and ragged, tearing sobs ripped from her throat. It was a sound König had heard before, but never quite so raw, so utterly devoid of hope. It was the sound of a mother breaking.

Then, with a guttural cry of pure anguish, she snatched the half-empty coffee mug from the windowsill—a mug Anton had given her for Mother’s Day, painted clumsily with blue and yellow—and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall, just beside him, porcelain shards scattering like shrapnel across the worn linoleum. A dark, jagged stain of lukewarm coffee spread slowly down the pale paint, like a wound bleeding into the wall.

König let out a choked cry, a small, barely audible sound of pure terror as a cold, piercing fear rooted him to the spot. He instinctively pulled himself tighter into the shadows of the doorway, trying to make himself invisible, his eyes wide with fear and a crushing helplessness. He watched, unable to move, as his mother’s body shook with the force of her grief.

His mother gasped at the sound of his cry, her head snapping up. Her red-rimmed eyes, wild and panicked, swept across the room, catching the glint of the shattered mug, then the dark stain, and finally, they locked onto his hidden, huddled form in the doorway.

“Anton!” she choked out, her voice a gasp, a whisper of horror. In an instant, the rage and despair vanished, replaced by a fresh wave of terror—this one for him. She stumbled forward, her legs unsteady, rushing towards him.

She dropped to her knees, heedless of the scattered porcelain shards, pulling him into a fierce, desperate hug that nearly stole his breath. Her body trembled, and he could feel the frantic hammering of her heart against his chest. “Oh, mein Schatz,” she sobbed, burying her face in his hair, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. I didn’t… I didn’t know you were there. Are you hurt? Are you okay? Did any of it… did any of the glass hit you?” She pulled back, her hands frantic, running over his arms, his legs, checking for cuts. “Forgive me, bitte forgive me. I’m so, so sorry, mein liebling.”

Her apologies were a torrent, a relentless wave washing over him, soaking into his skin, chilling him to the bone. “Bitte forgive me, oh my baby I’m so sorry… I just… I didn’t mean for you to see that. I just… It’s all so much. Are you cold? Why are you out of bed? Did you have a nightmare? Tell Mama, what was it about? Oh, my poor little love. You must be terrified. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you had to see me like that. This isn’t your burden, mein Schatz. It’s mine. All of it. I’m so sorry.”

She pulled him close again, rocking him gently, but the comfort was laced with a bitter resignation, a deep, penetrating coldness that seeped into his bones. He could feel the wetness of her tears on his cheek, taste the salt and the lingering bitterness of her desperation. Her apologies, meant to soothe, only underscored the vast, terrifying chasm that had just opened in their lives.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘦𝘴. The voice, heavy with a bitter resignation, whispered again, and the world spun.

His mothers warmth, her arms, the house, all of it evaporated, replaced by the reek of sweat, cheap beer, and stale cigarette smoke. The deafening roar of a frenzied crowd pressed in from all sides, illuminated by raw, unshielded bulbs hanging precariously overhead. Fifteen, lanky and all sharp angles, König stood in the crudely formed ring, his bare chest heaving, blood trickling from a cut above his left eye, blurring his vision. His opponent, a man twice his width and a head shorter, grunted, a thick, muscled forearm slamming into König’s ribs, sending a shockwave of pain through him.

He was all bone and sinew, still growing into his considerable frame, an almost unnaturally tall and lanky figure whose limbs seemed to stretch endlessly. Yet, König moved with a deceptive speed, a fluid grace that utterly belied his gangly, almost awkward appearance. Every muscle, honed through relentless practice and the brutal reality of his life filled with bullies, coiled and released with the precision of a predator. The air in the makeshift ring, thick with the scent of stale sweat, cheap disinfectant, and the metallic tang of old blood, crackled with anticipation.

The brute, a mountain of muscle named Rolf, whose reputation for sheer, unthinking force, lunged again. Sweat plastered his dark, matted hair to his forehead, dripping into his eyes, yet his gaze was fixed, burning with a mix of frustration and savage intent. This time, it was a haymaker, a wild, wide arc aimed squarely at König’s temple, designed to finish what Rolf saw as a prolonged insult for being put against a rookie. König, however, was already a whisper of movement. He weaved, a blur of practiced evasion, the punch whistling past his ear with a force that vibrated in the very air. He felt the displaced wind fan his hair, a cold caress of what could have been.

Then, without missing a beat, he used the colossal momentum of Rolf’s missed swing. As the brute spun, off-balance, König pivoted on the balls of his feet, his worn sneakers gripping the grimy canvas. His long, thin arm, seemingly too slender to inflict real damage, shot out like a whip. It was a precise, jarring uppercut that connected with the underside of Rolf’s jaw, snapping the man's head back with an audible crack that echoed even over the roar of the crowd.

The sound was a symphony to König’s ears. Before Rolf could even register the blow, another followed—a quick, stinging jab to the nose, meant less for power and more for disorientation, followed by a swift, brutal knee to the gut. The wind left Rolf’s lungs in an expelled grunt, and the man stumbled, a deep, guttural roar of pure, unadulterated frustration tearing from his throat. His eyes, now glazed with pain and impotent rage, searched for König, but found only empty air where his opponent had been a second before.

König didn't stop, didn't offer a moment of respite. He was a whirlwind of calculated violence. He feinted left, a flick of his wrist and shoulder designed to draw a reaction. Rolf, predictable in his brute force, lumbered into a clumsy block, arm raised high, leaving his lower body exposed. In that fleeting instant, König brought his right foot sweeping across the mat, a low, powerful arc that caught the man squarely behind the knee.

The impact wasn't crushing, but it was enough. Rolf roared again, a sound of surprise mixed with pain, his massive frame wobbling precariously. Unbalanced, swaying like a felled tree, his defenses crumbled.

As Rolf faltered, leaning forward for a desperate, clumsy counter, König closed the distance. He drove his shoulder, lean and surprisingly hard, into the man's chest. It wasn't a shove; it was a carefully applied force, a twist and a pull, using Rolf's own considerable weight against him. The brute, already tilting, found his feet swept out from under him. He went down with a heavy, sickening thud, a sprawling heap of muscle and defeated rage on the grimy mat.

For a beat, the arena seemed to hold its breath. Then, a collective gasp rippled through the onlookers, followed by an explosion of cheers, whistles, and the clatter of money changing hands. The air filled with shouts of "König! König!" König stood above Rolf, chest heaving, his gaze unflinching, a silent, almost detached observer of his own triumph.

The referee, a grizzled man with a crooked nose and a missing front tooth that whistled when he spoke, elbowed his way through the surging crowd. He grabbed König’s wrist, the boy’s skin slick with sweat and grime, and raised his hand high above his head.

"And the King of the Ring! Anton Alois Ebnar wins again!" The title, bestowed upon him for his silent, dominant presence despite his youth, echoed through the makeshift arena, bouncing off the corrugated iron roof and the grimy brick walls. It was a title he hadn't sought, but one he had undeniably earned, fight after grueling fight in this forgotten corner of the city.

Pain throbbed through his knuckles, a dull, insistent ache that radiated up his forearm. His ribs screamed from a glancing blow Rolf had landed earlier, a persistent reminder of the brute’s power. His head ached, a faint, lingering throb behind his eyes. But beneath it all, deeper than the physical discomfort, lay a cold, quiet satisfaction that settled into his bones like a welcome guest. He had won. He had earned it. More importantly, he had earned 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

He pushed through the throng of bettors and onlookers, their faces a blur of sweat, grins, and disappointment. Hands clapped his shoulder, voices shouted incoherent congratulations or bitter curses about lost bets. He offered no smiles, no words, his face a mask of weary indifference despite the adrenaline still thrumming a frantic rhythm in his veins. The air inside the arena, thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, cheap tobacco, and the blood-lust of competition, was suddenly stifling.

The cool night air outside was a profound relief, washing over him like a cleansing tide, carrying away the stench of the fight, the lingering aggression, the demands of the crowd. He pulled his thin, worn jacket tighter around him, the fabric doing little to ward off the chill but providing a familiar comfort.

He walked the familiar path home, the crisp notes of the winnings tucked deep in his pocket, a heavy, welcome weight that settled against his thigh. It wasn't just cash; it was purpose. Every step was a silent assertion of his resolve. The streetlights cast long, dancing shadows, guiding him through the labyrinthine alleys that offered the quickest, albeit shadiest, route through the city's underbelly. He kept his gaze forward, his senses alert, a practiced habit born of necessity and the constant threat of the streets.

The door to their cramped apartment, on the third floor of a crumbling tenement building, was ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the dim hallway. A pang of unease shot through him. He always made sure to lock it. As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of stale cooking oil, overworked fabric, and the faint, sweet smell of the cheap incense his mother burned to ward off the gloom, enveloped him.

His mother, dressed in her worn-out uniform for the night shift at the textile factory, turned from the small, rickety kitchen table. Her face, usually etched with worry lines and the profound fatigue that came from endless labor, brightened instantly upon seeing him.

A smile, rare and precious, bloomed on her lips. "Anton! Good, you’re back from school. You’re later than usual." Her voice, though tired, held a hopeful lilt he hadn't heard in days. "I just got my paycheck, so I say we take you and your brother to a nice dinner later and get something special. No more lentils for one night, eh?"

Her eyes, however, were quicker than her words, sharper than her weariness. They snagged, almost magnetically, on the fresh bruise blooming like an ugly purple flower on his cheekbone, the faint swelling of his knuckles, barely disguised by the dim light.

The smile withered on her lips, her words dying in her throat, replaced by a sudden, choking gasp. "Anton, mein Gott!" She rushed to him, her hands hovering, trembling slightly, before gently, oh so gently, touching the tender skin of his face. Her fingers were rough from years of manual labor, but her touch was feather-light, filled with an agonizing tenderness. "Oh, my baby. My strong, stubborn boy."

Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with unshed tears. "You need to stop getting into these fights. Bitte. I know it's tough right now, I know I'm not providing enough, I know there are bullies, and I'm so, so sorry for everything, Anton, truly. But bitte, try to get along with the others. Try to be safe. Bitte, for me." Her tears, always so close to the surface these days, a constant reservoir of sorrow and worry, began to fall freely now, tracing hot paths down her weary cheeks. Each drop felt like a brand on his own skin.

He nodded, a silent promise he knew, in the deepest chambers of his heart, he couldn't keep. He couldn't. Not if he wanted to protect them. "It's okay, Mutti," he mumbled, his own voice rougher than he intended, pulling away gently from her touch, not wanting her to feel the tremors that ran through him. "I'm fine. Just a couple of scrapes. Nothing, really." He forced a small, unconvincing smile. "You should go, though. You'll be late for work. The foreman will be angry."

She wrung her hands, her gaze still fixed on his bruised face, her love and fear a tangible presence in the small room. She apologized again, her words a quiet litany of "forgive me, Anton," "I wish it were different," "I just want you safe," for having to leave, for everything, for the crushing weight of their poverty.

Finally, reluctantly, with a heavy sigh that held the weariness of the world, she hurried out the door, her footsteps echoing faintly down the creaking wooden stairs until they faded into the general hum of the tenement building. The silence she left behind was louder, heavier than any noise.

As soon as her footsteps vanished, König walked to the kitchen table. The meager paycheck she had just received, a thin rectangle of paper that barely covered a fraction of their needs, lay innocently beside a menacing stack of bills, each envelope a stark reminder of their precarious existence. He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the crumpled notes, the prize of his latest victory. It was easily twice the size of her entire weekly paycheck, perhaps even more. He carefully, silently, unfolded his winnings, the crisp paper a stark contrast to the faded, worn bills of her salary. With a precise, almost ritualistic movement, he slipped them beneath her cash, ensuring they were hidden, but easily found.

It wasn't enough, he knew. It wouldn't erase the pain in her eyes, wouldn't cease the drinking she did when she thought no one would notice, wouldn't stop the flow of her apologies, wouldn't magically make the bills disappear or their apartment become less cramped. But it was something. It was all he had. And for now, as the cold satisfaction of victory mingled with the quiet ache of sacrifice, it would have to be enough. He stood there for a long moment, the weight of his secret, the burden of his love, settling deep within his young, bruised chest

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵? 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺. The voice, heavy with a bitter resignation, whispered again, and the world spun.

The quiet of the apartment, the small flicker of the kitchens overhead lights and faint scent of a microwaved dinner morphed into the shallow, rasping breaths of a child. König was still fifteen, but the kitchen was now the cramped, dim bedroom he shared with his little brother. Matthias, just six years old, was a small, feverish furnace in the lower bunk, his skin flushed and damp, his eyes glassy with delirium.

“’Ton?” the boy whimpered, his voice a thin thread of sound. “My head hurts.”

“I know, Matti. I know.” König’s voice, usually so flat and cold after a fight, was soft, a gentle murmur he reserved only for his brother and mother. He wrung out a cloth in a bowl of tepid water and placed it on Matthias’s burning forehead. His own body ached from the fight the night before—a deep, bone-weary throb in his ribs, a sharp sting from the fresh cut above his eye—but it was nothing compared to the frantic, clawing fear in his chest.

He had skipped school. The decision was instant, absolute and all too familiar. The winnings from the underground ring were under his mother’s paycheck, but this was a different kind of battle. He’d called her work, his voice tight with a panic he couldn’t fully conceal, only to be told she hadn’t come in. The phone had gone straight to her outdated voicemail, each unanswered call tightening the knot in his stomach. Where was she?

The day was a long, slow agony. He coaxed sips of water past Matthias’s parched lips, changed sweat-soaked sheets, and held a bucket when the dry heaves wracked his small frame. He read from a battered comic book until his voice grew hoarse, trying to anchor his brother to something other than the fever-dreams. The apartment, usually just shabby, felt like a sinking ship, and König was the only one manning the pumps, fending off the encroaching darkness with a cloth and a bowl of water.

Finally, as the afternoon light began to fade to a deep, bruised purple, the fever broke. Matthias’s breathing evened out, deepening into the rhythms of true sleep instead of fitful unconsciousness. The frantic heat receded from his skin, leaving him pale and exhausted, but peaceful. König slumped into the room’s single wooden chair, his body screaming in protest, his own eyelids leaden. He had done it. He had held the line.

The key turned in the lock just after dark. König looked up from his spot on the worn couch, a mixture of relief and sharp, unspoken anger ready to spill out.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶? 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥…

But the words died on his tongue.

His mother stood in the doorway, but it wasn’t the weary, apologetic woman who had left that morning. Her hair was down, curled. She wore a dress he’d never seen before, something with a faint floral pattern, and a touch of lipstick. Her eyes were bright, almost girlish. And her hand was clasped in that of a large, broad-shouldered man with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Anton! Matthias!” she chirped, her voice light, almost giddy. “We’re home! Come out, come out!”

König rose slowly, every muscle protesting, and stepped into the main room. Matthias, woken by the noise, shuffled out behind him, clinging to his brother’s leg, blinking owlishly.

His mother beamed, her gaze skipping over the fatigue etched on König’s face, the sickliness of her younger son. “Boys, this is Aurick.” She looked up at the man with a adoration that made König’s stomach clench. “And Aurick this is your new family!”

The world narrowed. The missed calls. The sickness. The cold fear. It all curdled into a hard, cold stone in König’s gut. She hadn’t been at work. She’d been on a date. She hadn’t answered because she hadn’t wanted to. He looked from her radiant, hopeful face to Aurick’s blandly smiling one, and the anger, hot and righteous, threatened to erupt. But then he saw it—the fragile hope in her eyes, the first genuine happiness he’d seen in years. He saw Matthias, confused but intrigued by the large, new presence.

So König, the King of the Ring, did what he did best. He schooled his features into a mask of pleasant surprise. He forced a smile that felt like a crack in dry earth. “Hello,” he said, his voice neutral. “Nice to meet you.” He nudged Matthias gently. “Right, Matti?”

Matthias, ever the mirror of his brother, gave a small, shy nod.

The voice, that spectral judge, whispered again on the edges of his perception, and the world dissolved into a fresh hell.

…𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨.

The cramped apartment warped. He was a little older, sixteen now. The world shrank to the four walls of that cramped apartment, the air thickening until it was a soupy cloud of spilled beer, sweat, and the unmistakable, coppery scent of rage. It was a smell König had come to know as well as his own, a perfume that announced the arrival of a storm. He was sixteen, and the year under Aurick’s thumb had sanded down the boy he’d been, leaving behind something harder, more angular.

König’s universe had just been violently re-centered on the worn, floral-patterned rug of the living room. Each thread of it pressed into his cheek, a tiny, insignificant insult against the greater agony blooming across his body. A constellation of pain was being mapped onto him, each star a fresh point of impact. Aurick’s fist, a mirror of his fathers and a meaty hammer sheathed in calloused skin, had connected with his jaw with a wet, percussive crack that echoed in the small space.

König’s head snapped back, his vision starbursting into a chaotic nebula. Before he could even process that first wave of nauseating hurt, a boot—scuffed, steel-toed, and heavy with intent—caught him in the side. The air left his lungs in a desperate, soundless whoosh. He heard it then, a sound more intimate and terrifying than the shout: the sickening, dry creak of a rib protesting its designated place in his body. It was a sound from inside himself, a betrayal.

“You think you’re a big man? Stealing from me?” Aurick snarled. His voice was a guttural thing, ripped from a throat raw with cheap beer. Each word was a distinct entity, punctuated not by a period but by a blow. A backhand across the mouth. A kick to the thigh.

König hadn’t stolen anything. The truth was a small, fragile thing, cowering in the corner of his room. Matthias, just seven and trying to scrape together a few moments of normal childhood, had plucked a few marks from the crumpled wad in Aurick’s coat pocket. The goal was candy from the kiosk down the street, a tiny, sugary rebellion against the perpetual gray fear that now colored their lives. König had seen the sheer, unadulterated terror in his brother’s wide eyes when Aurick had discovered the money missing. The lie had risen in König’s throat like a shield, forged in the relentless fire of the past year. It was an instinct, a reflex.

“It was me,” he’d said, his voice a flat, dead thing, devoid of any emotion that could be used as a weapon against him. “I took it.”

Now, he paid the price. He curled into a tight ball, a pathetic attempt to protect the soft, vital parts of himself. He drew his knees to his chest, tucked his head, made himself small. The blows were a rain of hail on a shingled roof—his body. A particularly vicious kick, aimed with cruel precision at his lower back, stole the world away. For a terrifying second, there was no sound, no sight, only a vacuum of pure, white-hot pain. His lungs refused to work. He tasted copper, warm and metallic, as blood from his nose and a split lip trickled down his throat. His vision swam, the edges darkening into a tunneling blackness.

Through the shimmering haze of agony, he saw her. His mother. She was a ghost in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand pressed over her mouth as if to physically hold in a scream, or a plea, or a sob. The other hand was white-knuckled on the doorframe. Her eyes were vast pools of terrified paralysis. They were locked on him, but they did not see 𝘩𝘪𝘮; they saw the consequence, the danger, the storm. She said nothing. Did nothing. She was a statue of fear, and her silence was a colder, deeper hurt than any of Aurick’s blows.

When Aurick finally stopped, it was not from mercy but from exhaustion. He stood over König, panting, his broad chest heaving. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat on the floor near König’s head. The glob of saliva landed with a soft, final thud on the rug, an inch from König’s eye. “Stay down, you little thief,” he grunted, the words dripping with a finality that brooked no argument.

The moment Aurick’s heavy footsteps retreated toward the kitchen, the spell was broken. König did not stay down. Staying down was an acceptance, a surrender he would not make. Moving was an exercise in pure will. Every shift of muscle, every tiny adjustment, was a fresh fire. Using his elbows, he dragged himself forward, his body a dead weight. He pushed himself up onto his knees, the world tilting nauseatingly. He could feel his mother’s eyes on him, but he did not look at her. To look would be to acknowledge the chasm that her inaction had carved between them.

He stumbled past her, down the short, dark hall, each step sending a jangling shockwave from his feet to his screaming rib. He shouldered his bedroom door open and collapsed onto the thin, scratchy rug beside his bed, not even possessing the strength to climb onto the mattress.

For a long time, he just lay there, breathing in shallow, ragged gasps. A hospital was an impossible fantasy. The questions would be a different kind of beating, and the consequences for Matthias, for his mother, would be far more dire than his own broken body.

Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself up. He locked the door, the click of the bolt a small, definitive act of control in a world where he had none. The room was lit by the jaundiced glow of a streetlamp filtering through the grimy window. It was enough.

He shuffled to the small mirror above his dresser. The boy who looked back was a stranger. His left eye was already swelling shut, the lid a puffy, purple mound. A deep, ugly gash split his cheekbone, welling with slow, thick blood. His lip was fat and split. He peeled off his shirt, his movements stiff and careful. His torso was a canvas of deep, angry bruises, blooms of violet and black and a sickening yellow-green already forming around the epicenter on his ribs. He prodded the area gently and his breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary sound in the silent room.

In his mother’s sewing basket, he found what he needed: a small spool of black thread and a needle. From the kitchen earlier, he had smuggled the half-empty bottle of cheap vodka. He unscrewed the cap. The smell was sharp, clean, cutting through the fog of pain in his head.

He poured a generous amount over the needle and the length of thread he’d bitten off. Then, taking a breath that was half-gasp, half-sob, he tipped the bottle and let the clear liquid stream directly into the gash on his cheek.

The pain was instantaneous and brilliant, a white-hot brand that seared through his nervous system. He gripped the edge of the dresser, his knuckles bleaching white, stars exploding behind his clenched eyelids. He breathed through it, harsh, ragged gusts of air, refusing to give the pain a voice. His hands, his tools, his weapons, were trembling. He forced them to still, willed the adrenaline coursing through him to steady them. He positioned the needle. The first puncture was the worst. The sharp point met resistance, then slid through the torn flesh. A sound escaped him then, a thin, high whine that was utterly alien. He pulled the thread through, the friction a fresh agony.

Each pull was a meticulous act of self-repair and self-destruction. He was both the architect and the ruin. The needle dove and rose, a tiny, brutal boat on a sea of torn skin, drawing the ragged edges of himself back together. His jaw was clenched so tightly he feared his teeth would powder. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped into his good eye, stinging. He didn’t wipe it away. He was a creature of pure focus, existing only in the space between one stitch and the next.

When it was done, he tied a clumsy, ugly knot and cut the thread. He looked in the mirror. A crude, black seam now bisected his cheek, a brutal signature written in his own blood. He was patched. Mended. A thing repaired for further use.

He didn’t bother cleaning up or changing his clothes. He simply fell face-down onto his bed, the rough blanket scratching his wounded face, and was instantly swallowed by a black, pain-riddled oblivion.

He did not know how long he was out. Time had lost all meaning. He was dragged back to consciousness not by the light of dawn, which had not yet come, but by a sound so small and fragile it was almost nothing at all.

𝘛𝘢𝘱. 𝘛𝘢𝘱-𝘵𝘢𝘱.

A faint scratching at his door.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

A whisper, so tiny it seemed to come from inside his own aching head. “’Ton?”

It was Matthias. His voice was a thimble-full of fear, a tremor in the dark hall.

König groaned, not in the mood to deal with Matthias but knowing he couldn’t ignore the younger child. He had to get up, to be strong. This was an old song and dance anyway. Every muscle protested, a symphony of aches and throbs but he continued to push himself upright, groaning softly, before beginning the painstaking process of cleaning himself as best he could. He wiped the dried blood from his face with a dirty shirt, wincing at the harsh fabric on his cuts, and ran another shirt over his bruised arms.

He pulled on a long-sleeved shirt, one that extended high enough to conceal the worst of the bruising on his neck and shoulders, though the swollen, discolored landscape of his face was a story he couldn’t possibly conceal. He moved stiffly, each movement a conscious effort to prevent the ragged groan from escaping his lips. He forced a grin onto his swollen features, a sad parody of his usual smile, hoping the dim light of the hallway would obscure the full truth. “I’m fine, kiddo,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, but steady as he unlocked and opened the door. “Just took a bad fall. Clumsy me.”

Matthias stood there, a small, forlorn figure, his lower lip trembling, his small hands clasped tight. His eyes, too old for his young face, were wide, pools of knowing guilt that reflected the truth König couldn't hide. He saw the doubt, the fear, the crushing burden that Matthias was trying to carry. “I’m sorry,” Matthias whispered, the words barely audible, heavy with unspoken understanding.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” König said, his voice softening, reaching out to ruffle his brother’s hair, wincing slightly as the movement pulled on his shoulder. An idea, born of desperation, formed in his mind, a sudden, urgent need to erase that look from his brother’s face, to offer a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. He reached under his mattress, his fingers closing around a small, surprisingly heavy sock—his own secret stash of money, kept for emergencies, earned through countless small, illicit fights he’d picked in the streets, a different kind of pain he understood.

“Come on,” he urged, his voice filled with a forced bravado. “Let’s get out of here. Ice cream.”

They walked to the ice cream parlor, a journey that felt impossibly long to König. Each step was a careful, calculated precision of a man made of glass, of bones that could shatter with the slightest wrong move. He kept his stride purposefully slow, matching Matthias’s smaller steps, trying to appear normal, to draw as little attention as possible to his bruised face and his rigid posture. Matthias walked beside him, quietly, occasionally glancing up at him with those knowing eyes, but he didn't question, didn't push. He simply accepted the offered escape.

The parlor was a beacon of warmth and sugary smells, a stark contrast to the cold, hard reality they had just left. The air was thick with the scent of waffle cones and melted chocolate, a symphony of cheerful chatter and the cheerful jingle of the bell above the door. König, despite the throbbing pain, felt a flicker of something akin to warmth in his chest as Matthias’s eyes widened, mesmerized by the vibrant display of flavors behind the glass.

He bought Matthias a towering sundae, piled high with three scoops of his favorite flavors, hot fudge, sprinkles, and extra whipped cream, a sweet, extravagant rebellion against their harsh world. For himself, he ordered a single scoop of vanilla, a bland, easy choice he knew he’d mostly just push around the bowl.

They sat at a small, sticky table by the window, watching the last flickers of daylight fade. Matthias, utterly engrossed, devoured his sundae with an unselfconscious joy that König hadn't seen in months. König mostly watched him, the spoon clutched in his hand, his own ice cream slowly melting into a sweet, milky soup. The silence between them wasn't awkward; it was a comfortable, shared space, a temporary shield against the outside world.

When Matthias was finished, his face smeared with chocolate and whipped cream, they wandered out into the twilight, walking through the neighborhood park as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fiery orange and soft violet. König instinctively avoided the paths that led directly home, prolonging their escape, savoring these stolen moments.

They talked then, softly, about comic books, about the eccentricities of their teachers, about everything and nothing. König made himself laugh, a little forced at first, but then Matthias’s innocent, unburdened laughter, bright and clear in the gathering dusk, echoed through the park, and it was a blessing on König’s shattered soul, a temporary anesthetic to the ache in his bones and the sting of betrayal. For a few precious, fleeting hours, the monstrous shadow of Aurick, the metallic taste of blood, the deep, gnawing ache of his mother’s paralysis, receded, replaced by the fragile, beautiful sound of his brother’s unburdened joy.

It was fully dark when they finally crept back into the apartment. The silence this time was truly merciful—Aurick was gone, probably out drinking, leaving them a brief reprieve. König, moving with agonizing slowness, helped Matthias get ready for bed, his hands gentle as he guided him through the nightly ritual. He tucked Matthias into the lower bunk of their shared bed, pulling the thin blanket up to his chin. As König turned to leave, Matthias’s small hand shot out, catching him in a surprisingly strong grip. “’Ton?”

König paused, turning back, his heart aching with a familiar mix of love and resignation. “Yeah, Matti?”

“Danke.” His voice was thick with sleep, already blurring the edges of the day’s horrors. “I love you. I’m really glad you’re my brother.” He snuggled deeper into his pillow, his eyes already closed, his small face peaceful. “I’m glad you’ll never leave me.”

König stood there for a long moment, his hand on the cool metal of the bunk bed frame, the words a spear through his heart. He leaned down and kissed his brother’s forehead. “Never,” he whispered, the promise tearing something inside of him. He turned off the light and closed the door softly.

In the darkness of the hallway, the voice was there again, no longer a whisper but a cold, clear verdict in the silence.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩. 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮…

The spectral accusation hung in the air, a truth he could not escape. It permeated the stillness of the apartment, seeped into the very walls, and settled heavy in his gut. The precious hours of reprieve, the warmth of Matthias's laughter, shattered into a thousand shards, each one a mirror reflecting his failure. He could still feel the faint tremor of Matthias’s small hand clutching his, hear the sleepy, trusting declaration.

“𝘐’𝘮 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦.”

An overwhelming clench seized his chest, a memory so sharp it stole the air from his lungs. It wasn't just a memory; it was a wound that had never truly healed, a moment he had replayed countless times in the desolate chambers of his mind, each iteration more agonizing than the last.

The world tilted. The hallway warped, the scent of stale air replaced by the acrid sting of cheap air freshener and old cigarette smoke. The silence shattered, replaced by the frantic shouts of a boy and the raw, guttural cries of a mother. König’s vision blurred, the modern apartment hall fading, replacing itself with the cramped, perpetually dim living room. He was standing by the peeling front door, a worn backpack slung over his shoulder, its contents meager but carefully chosen. He wasn't Anton anymore. He was König. And he was leaving.

Across the cramped living room, Matthias, his face blotchy and tear-streaked, lunged.

“‘Ton! No! Bitte!” Matthias, much smaller, thinner, a mere wisp of a boy in comparison to König, was clamped onto König’s leg, his small arms wrapped around his calf with surprising strength in their desperation, an anchor of anguish. His face was a tear-streaked mess, snot running freely, his eyes wide with desperate terror.

König tried to take a step, his bag heavy on his shoulder, but Matthias was an anchor, dragging, pulling, a heartbreaking dead weight.

“You promised! You said you’d never leave me! Anton, bitte! Don’t go! Don’t leave me!” His words dissolved into agonized wails, his entire body seemed to vibrate with a raw, primal fear of abandonment. “You promised!”

König tried to pull away, but Matthias held on, a smaller, terrified limpet. His brother’s grip was surprisingly unyielding, fueled by a terror that König knew all too well. Matthias’s pleas were high-pitched, dissolving into incoherent wails as König gently, yet firmly, tried to dislodge him. He felt like he was tearing off a part of himself, a living, vital piece of his own soul.

From the sofa, his mother, her face blotchy and tear-streaked in a different way, her hair disheveled, slowly rose. “König, bitte, 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦 don’t do this. We can—we can make things better. Don’t leave. Bitte, son, mein Schatz, don’t leave.” Her voice was a fragile whisper, laced with a familiar, weary plea, but it was directed as much at the man lounging on the sofa as it was at König. She reached out a trembling hand, not quite daring to touch him. Her eyes, red-rimmed and filled with a desperate cocktail of fear and love, flickered between König and the man. Aurick.

Aurick merely scoffed, a sneer twisting his already unpleasant features. He took a long swig from the beer bottle in his hand, his eyes narrowed into slits of contempt. “Good riddance, I say. That kid was nothing but a waste of space anyway. Always causing trouble, always got that sour look on his face.” He punctuated his cruelty with a harsh, derisive laugh.

The words, sharp and deliberately barbed, snapped something inside König. The careful precision he’d tried to maintain, the glacial control he’d imposed on himself, shattered. Matthias’s heartbroken sobs, his mother’s pathetic helplessness, and Aurick’s casual cruelty converged into a blinding, scorching inferno of rage.

König dropped his backpack with a thud, the sound swallowed by Matthias’s cries. He ripped his arm free from Matthias’s grasp, the sudden motion sending his brother stumbling back onto the worn carpet, his whimpers turning into a choked gasp. König didn’t spare him a glance, his gaze fixed, laser-like, on Aurick. He strode across the living room, each step heavy with purpose, the floorboards groaning under his weight, the rage coiling tighter in his gut.

Before Aurick could even register the shift in König’s demeanor, König’s fist connected with a sickening crunch. The older man’s head snapped back, the beer bottle flying from his hand to smash against the wall. Aurick cried out, a sound of surprise and pain, as König’s knuckles scraped against the bridge of his nose. Blood, bright and stark against his sallow skin, immediately began to gush, painting his lip and chin crimson.

“𝘞𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦?” König’s voice was a low growl, barely recognizable, laced with a venomous fury that had been simmering for years. He seized Aurick by the collar, hauling him half off the sofa, uncaring of the man’s struggle. “If anyone’s a waste of space, it’s 𝘺𝘰𝘶.” He shoved Aurick back down, hard, the sofa springs groaning in protest. “You should be smart and leave this house. No one needs your money, and we damn sure don’t need your shitty attitude.”

Aurick, clutching his bleeding nose, scrambled backward, eyes wide with a mixture of pain and disbelief. “You little bastard! I’ll kill you! You hear me? I’ll fucking kill you for that! Get out! You’re not welcome back in this home, you hear? Not ever!”

As Aurick cursed, screaming threats, König’s mother rushed forward, not to König’s side, but to Aurick’s. “Aurick! Honey! Oh mein Gott, are you okay? Anton, what have you done? Aurick, I’m so sorry, he didn’t mean it, bitte, don’t make him leave, bitte…!” She was practically groveling, her words a frantic, desperate apology.

Aurick, still reeling, his nose gushing, looked at her with pure disdain. “Get off me, you useless cow!” And then, with a backhanded swing, he struck her across the face. The sound was a sharp crack that echoed in the small room, a sound that would haunt König for the rest of his life. His mother cried out, stumbling, her hand flying to her cheek. A red mark bloomed almost instantly on her pale skin.

In that instant, any last shred of control König possessed evaporated. The world narrowed to Aurick, and the burning need to obliterate the bastard from existence. No thought, no mercy, just pure, unadulterated rage. He didn’t just hit Aurick again; he 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 him.

He lunged, a feral cry tearing from his throat, slamming his fist into Aurick’s jaw, then his stomach, again and again, a sickening rhythm of impact and grunt. He knocked Aurick off the sofa, onto the floor, and didn't stop. He kicked, he punched, a whirlwind of fists and feet, each blow delivered with the full force of years of suppressed anger, of watching his mother diminish, of living in constant fear. Aurick screamed, a raw, primal sound of pain and terror as König continued to rain down blows, his vision red.

“Don’t you 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 hit my mutter again!” König snarled, his voice hoarse, each word punctuated by another sickening thud of fist on flesh. He hauled Aurick up by his shirtfront, shoving his bloodied, battered face inches from his own. Aurick’s eyes were swollen, his lips split, a gurgle of terror emanating from his throat. “Because if you do, Aurick, I’ll personally make you wish you were never born. I’ll make sure you regret the day you ever thought you could breathe the same air as her.” He flung Aurick back down, the man’s body hitting the flimsy coffee table with a splintering crash.

König paused, chest heaving, knuckles aching, the taste of adrenaline metallic on his tongue. He looked down at the whimpering, broken heap that was Aurick, then turned to his mother, who had crumpled to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching her bruised cheek. Her eyes met his, filled with a complex tapestry of fear, relief, and a profound, heartbreaking shame.

“And don’t worry,” König said, his voice flat, exhausted, the rage now a cold, hollow ache as he turned back to Aurick. “I’m never coming back to this shithole. Not ever.” He picked up his backpack, its weight a familiar comfort, and turned for the door once more.

Before he could reach it, Matthias was there again, having scrambled to his feet, a fresh wave of tears streaming down his small, innocent face. He threw himself at König, his arms wrapping around his waist, desperately trying to hold him back. “‘Ton, no! Bitte, no! Don’t leave! Take me with you! Bitte, take me!” He was a small, desperate anchor, dragging at König’s resolve.

König looked down at his brother, his heart tearing into a million pieces. Matthias’s small, trusting face, wet with tears, was a mirror of his own pain, his own terror. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring Matthias into the bleak, uncertain future that stretched before him. He had to harden himself, to make this impossible choice.

“Get off me, Matti!” König’s voice was rough, harsher than he intended, laced with a desperation that mirrored his brother's. He pushed Matthias, not violently, but with a force that sent the smaller boy stumbling backward, falling hard onto his bottom on the threadbare carpet. “Where I’m going, you’re too young to go. You have to stay here, Matti. You have to look out for mutter now.”

Matthias stared up at him, betrayal warring with abject terror in his wide, tear-filled eyes. He opened his mouth, and a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish tore from his throat—a scream, a sob, a heartbroken wail that ripped through König’s very soul. He cried, and cried, and screamed for König to stay, for König to come back, a desperate, childish lament that echoed the promise König had just broken.

But König couldn’t look back. If he stayed a moment longer, if he saw the raw pain in Matthias’s eyes for another second, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. He would take Matthias, and he knew that would be a death sentence for them both. He took a single, agonizing breath, then wrenched open the door and stepped out into the cold, unforgiving night, leaving the screams, the tears, the shattered remnants of his family behind.

Then he ran. He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs ached, until the bitter cold air scoured his throat. He ran until the image of Matthias’s tear-streaked face, of his mother’s crumpled form, of Aurick’s bloody face, all blurred into a kaleidoscope of pain.

By the time he stopped running he was in some random alley way, his lungs burning like acid. The weight of his abandonment crashed down on him, suffocating him. He was out, he was free, but he was also completely, utterly alone, haunted by the memory of Matthias’s screams.

“𝘐’𝘮 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦.”

The words echoed, a cruel counterpoint to the reality he’d just forged. He was a monster. He always had been. Never good enough, always hurting those he cared about, always letting them down. He was a freak, incapable of love, incapable of sustaining anything good. Every time he tried, he just made things worse, left a trail of wreckage and broken hearts in his wake. First his father, then his mother, and now Matthias. He was poison. Everything he touched turned to ash.

The guilt, a living, breathing entity, wrapped its icy tendrils around his heart, squeezing until he felt a desperate, suffocating pressure. He was drowning in it, in the overwhelming certainty of his own worthlessness. He leaned against the cold concrete of the alleyway wall, his head bowed, his body trembling, wishing for an end to the ceaseless, grinding pain in his chest, the relentless self-condemnation.

And in that desolate, echoing silence, the voice returned, softer this time, more insidious, a seductive whisper directly into the hollow chambers of his mind.

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭… 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘈 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦… 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵?

König, broken and utterly defeated, looked up into the impenetrable darkness, a desperate, raw plea tearing from his spirit.

“...Ja.”

And then, nothing.

He jolted awake, a gasp catching in his throat, heart hammering against his ribs. The ceiling above was unfamiliar—stark white, recessed lighting, not the peeling plaster and water stains of his childhood bedroom. He was in a bed, a soft mattress beneath him, crisp sheets tangled around his legs. Not the cold, damp alleyway. Not the filthy floor of his mother’s apartment.

Instantly, every muscle in his body tensed. His eyes swept the room, cataloging every detail. Safe room? Hostile environment? He reached instinctively for the familiar weight of his combat knife, for the reassuring cold steel of a pistol, only to find empty air at his hip and beside the bed. No weapon. His jaw tightened. A flicker of panic tried to claw its way up his throat, but he ruthlessly suppressed it. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not now, not ever. He was a soldier, a professional. He would adapt. He would observe.

He swung his legs out of bed, his bare feet meeting a surprisingly plush rug. On a sleek, modern nightstand, beside a glass of water, lay an object that made his breath hitch: his hood. The familiar, heavy fabric, folded neatly. He snatched it up, the material cool against his fingertips, and pulled it over his head, adjusting the front until it perfectly fit, the world narrowing to a comforting, familiar tunnel. The simple act brought a strange sense of grounding, a small anchor in the sea of his confusion.

With his hood on, he felt a fraction more capable. He took in the room again. It was a bedroom, clearly. Tastefully decorated, with light-colored walls. But the walls weren’t just bare like most bedrooms. He moved closer, his gaze drawn to the intricate graphite drawings adorning one wall. They weren't framed, but drawn directly onto sketch book paper, a flowing mural of life and fantasy. There were sketches of animals—a powerful wolf, a sleek raven, a lumbering bear. Objects—a sniper rifle, a steaming mug, a well-worn book. Buildings—a castle with tall arches, a small coffee shop, a hidden military base. And then, there they were, scattered among the others: drawings of 𝘩𝘪𝘮, unmistakably König, in various poses, some with his hood, some without, strong and vulnerable. And among 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦, drawings of 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵. His skeletal mask, his imposing frame, sometimes alone, sometimes in conversation with König, sometimes simply watching. König frowned under his hood. Ghost? What was Ghost doing here? And why did seeing his face, even drawn, make something in König’s chest clench with an emotion he couldn't quite place?

Before he could delve deeper into the unsettling familiarity of the drawings, a sharp 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨 echoed from somewhere deeper within the house. König went rigid, every sense on high alert. He moved, not walked, but flowed, a silent shadow gliding through the room, his bare feet making no sound on the rug. He reached the door, pushed it open a sliver, and peered out into a sunlit hallway. The house was modern, spacious, with clean lines and warm wood accents. No signs of struggle, no forced entry. Just an alarming, almost domestic, tranquility.

He crept down the hall, his movements honed by years of covert operations, navigating the unknown with lethal grace. The scent of coffee and something savory, like frying bacon, wafted towards him, leading him to the source of the clang. He paused at the archway leading into the kitchen, his body instinctively pressing against the wall, observing, assessing.

And then he saw them.

Ghost stood at a wide island, his back to König, meticulously flipping pancakes on a griddle. His usual skull balaclava was in place, his movements precise, almost gentle, as he worked. Across the room, at a dining table bathed in morning sunlight, sat Soap. He was leaning back in his chair, a mug steaming beside him, engrossed in a newspaper, occasionally muttering under his breath or taking a sip of his coffee.

They were utterly calm. Unhurried. Like they had done this hundreds, thousands of times before. Like this was their normal.

König couldn't move. His breath hitched again, but this time not from panic, but from an overwhelming surge of disorientation. His mind spun, trying to reconcile the stark reality of the alleyway with this bewildering, serene domestic scene. How did he get here? What was happening? He stood there, a silent, unmoving sentinel in the doorway, spiraling, the questions hammering against the inside of his skull.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘮 𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? 𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦? 𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱?

Soap looked up then, his head tilting slightly. His eyes, bright and shining, met König’s. König tensed, bracing himself for an insult, an order, an attack. But Soap just smiled, a wide, blinding grin that crinkled his eyes and softened the lines of his face.

“‘Bout time you got up, big man,” Soap chirped, his voice surprisingly light, warm. His smile faltered for a second as he took in König’s hood. “Guess it’s a mask day for you too, huh?”

König blinked, the words echoing in his mind. 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰? He looked at Soap, then at Ghost, who hadn’t even turned around, still expertly flipping pancakes. Ghost was also wearing his mask. It dawned on him then, slowly, that Soap’s comment implied König 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 wear his hood around them. It implied a level of intimacy, a casualness that his previous reality utterly lacked.

And then, the most unsettling thing happened. A strange wave of… 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘺 washed over him. As if this 𝘸𝘢𝘴 normal. As if he 𝘩𝘢𝘥 done this countless times. Living with Ghost and Soap, waking up in this house, smelling coffee and pancakes, seeing them in the morning, was suddenly, inexplicably, familiar. Like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

“Well, I’m glad you’re awake,” Soap continued, oblivious to König’s internal maelstrom, “because your mum called. Said your brother is comin’ to visit today.”

𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳? 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳? König’s mind stuttered. The last he saw of his mother, she was a crumpled, sobbing heap. Matthias was a heartbreaking wail in the night.

“Oh, schieße,” König mumbled, the words escaping him before he could process them. “I should call her back.”

He fumbled in his pocket, discovering his phone—a sleek, modern device, not the battered relic he remembered. He found his mother’s contact, her face a warm, smiling photo. He dialed.

“König?” Her voice, soft and clear, answered almost immediately. “It’s good to hear your voice, Schatz. You need to visit soon.”

“Mutter,” König breathed, the sound thick with an emotion he hadn’t felt in years. Relief? Love? Guilt? “I’m sorry. I will. How are you?”

As he spoke, Soap got up from the table, walked over to him, and without a word, wrapped his arms around König in a comfortable, familiar hug, resting his forehead on König’s shoulder. König stiffened for a second, then found himself leaning into the embrace, a warmth spreading through him that felt both foreign and utterly right.

“Oh, I’m wonderful, dear!” his mother chirped, her voice bubbling with happiness. “Your father and I are actually going on that cruise we talked about, the one to the fjords! It’s all booked!”

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. The mention of him sent a faint, discordant shiver down König’s spine. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳? He was… a good guy now? It felt unsettling, a small, dark corner of his mind trying to reconcile it with a different, colder memory, but he quickly pushed it down. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘨𝘶𝘺, he repeated to himself. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

“I’m really happy for you, Mutter,” König said, his voice softer than he usually allowed. “I hope you and father have a wonderful trip. Tell father I love him.”

“I will, darling! And Matthias should be arriving around three o’clock. He’s so excited to see you.”

“I’ll pick him up from the airport,” König stated, the words coming easily, as if arranging pick-ups for his brother was a regular occurrence. He said his goodbyes, promising to call again soon, and hung up.

He turned in Soap’s arms, hugging him back properly. “What’s with the affection, Johnny?” he asked, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, a lightness in his chest he hadn't known was possible.

Soap just grinned up at him, his eyes sparkling. “Missed you, big man.”

Then, with a gentle hand, Soap reached up and pushed back König’s hood, revealing his face fully. His eyes, the color of a deep chocolate, met Soap’s. Soap leaned in, and König, without a moment’s hesitation, without a single thought of fear or surprise, met him halfway.

The kiss was a revelation, soft and searching, yet immediately familiar, like a melody he’d hummed his entire life but only now truly heard. It deepened, a comfortable weight settling in his chest, chasing away the last vestiges of the morning’s confusion. König found himself leaning into Soap, his hands tangling in the soft fabric of Soap’s shirt, the world narrowing to this one, perfect moment.

But the universe, or at least Ghost, had a different plan for how the perfect moment should conclude. A low, gravelly voice cut through the burgeoning warmth, a calm, almost amused rumble that seemed to emanate from the very air around them. “Tha’s enough, you two. Breakfast is gettin’ cold.”

König broke away from Soap with a sharp intake of breath, a flush crawling up his neck that had nothing to do with the earlier fear and everything to do with a sudden, overwhelming embarrassment. He fumbled, pulling his hood back down with a jerky motion, feeling the comforting weight of the fabric settle around his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled, the word barely a whisper, his gaze darting from Soap’s still-grinning face to Ghost, who hadn’t even turned, still meticulously arranging pancakes on a stack.

Soap, however, merely chuckled, a bright, unrestrained sound that shimmered in the morning light. He leaned back, a hand casually resting on König’s arm. “Si is just jealous,” he chirped, winking at König.
Ghost finally turned, a plate laden with pancakes, bacon, and eggs in one hand. His masked face was unreadable, but the subtle slant of his head in Soap’s direction spoke volumes.

“Jealous of wha’, Johnny? Your chronic inability to wake up before ten, or your tendency to burn toast?” His voice was dry, the words laced with an affection that belied their teasing nature. He set the plate down on the island with a soft thud.

Soap scoffed good-naturedly. “Hey! I haven’t burned toast in at least… three days! An’ 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 the one who needs a ten-alarm clock just to get out o’ bed.”

Ghost just hummed, picking up another plate. “Funny, I recall a certain incident involving a smoke detector an’ the fire department last week. An’ I was up at five, making coffee for two ungrateful louts.”

König watched their easy banter unfold, a quiet smile forming under his hood. It was a comfortable rhythm, a well-worn path of affection and teasing that felt so inherently 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘴. This was how they were. This was 𝘩𝘪𝘴 life now, a life where sharp words cloaked deep affection, where masks were just part of the morning routine. A profound warmth spread through his chest, solidifying the feeling of belonging that had been tentatively blooming since he woke up. It was a strange, bewildering, beautiful sensation.

Ghost set a second plate, equally generous, beside the first. “Sit down, Anton. Before this all gets cold.” The use of his real name, spoken so casually, sent another tiny, shiver down König’s spine.

He nodded, still feeling a bit flustered, and slid into the seat Soap had occupied, while Soap moved to sit opposite him. Ghost settled at the head of the island, a silent, imposing presence, yet one that radiated warmth. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the clinking of cutlery and the gentle sounds of chewing filling the sunlit kitchen. The food—perfectly cooked pancakes, crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs—was delicious, a comforting weight in his stomach.

Soap was the first to break the quiet. “So,” he said, pushing his plate away slightly, a look of eager anticipation on his face, “wha’s the plan for today, then? We got anything excitin’ planned?”

Ghost took a sip of his coffee, his eyes, even through the mask, seeming to regard Soap with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “Yes, Johnny. We ave’ a very excitin’ plan. We’re going on a grocery run.”

Soap’s shoulders slumped dramatically, then perked up almost immediately. “A grocery run! Fantastic! I need to see wha’ new snacks they’ve got. An’ maybe some o’ those fancy artisanal cheeses you like, Anton.” He looked at König, hope gleaming in his eyes.

“Actually,” Ghost interjected, his voice firm, “you’re stayin’ ere’. To clean the house.”

Soap’s jaw dropped. “Wha’?! No way! You can’t leave me ere’, Si! Tha’s so boring!” He whined, sounding remarkably like a petulant child. “Why can’t Anton do it? He just woke up!”

Ghost set his mug down with a soft click. “Because if you come along, Johnny, we won’t leave the store until sunset. You treat a grocery store like it’s a high-stakes scavenger hunt. Besides,” he added, a hint of steel in his tone, “the guest bedroom could do with a straighten-up before Anton’s brother arrives, an’ I recall you promisin’ to sort out the linen closet last week.”

Soap pouted, a truly magnificent display of dejection. He crossed his arms, muttering grievances under his breath. “It’s not fair! I always get stuck with the cleanin’ while yous two get to go ave’ fun!”

He tried to argue, to compromise, to guilt-trip, but Ghost remained unyielding, simply raising an eyebrow at each new protest. Eventually, Soap deflated, slumping against the counter.

“Fine,” he grumbled, “but you better bring me back a giant bag o’ those sour gummy worms, or I’m goin’ on strike.”

König couldn’t help it. A deep, rumbling laugh escaped him, a sound he hadn’t thought himself capable of. He reached across the island and gently nudged Soap’s arm. “Cheer up, Johnny. I’ll take you shopping tomorrow. We’ll get all the sour gummy worms your heart desires.”

Soap’s face brightened instantly, a wide grin spreading across his masked features. “See, Ghost? This is why Anton’s my favorite.”

Ghost just rolled his eyes, a barely perceptible motion that König still caught. He mumbled something under his breath about “fickle loyalty” and “buying affections with sweets,” but the corner of his lips, König noticed, twitched upwards ever so slightly under the mask.

Quickly after that they finished their breakfast, the lingering warmth of the food and the company settling comfortably within König. Ghost gave Soap a list of chores, which Soap griped about good-naturedly, before they all moved to get ready. König retrieved his phone and keys, feeling the familiar weight of them in his pocket, still amazed at how naturally this new reality fit him.

After a few minutes, König and Ghost were at the front door. König reached out, pulling Soap into a hug. “Be good, Johnny,” he murmured, the words laced with genuine affection. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on Soap’s forehead, then another on his lips, feeling Soap’s answering smile against his own.

“You too, big man,” Soap replied, his eyes sparkling. Then he turned to Ghost, who stood waiting patiently by the door. “No funny business, you two,” Soap teased, and then, with a playful shove, he leaned up and pressed a swift kiss to Ghost’s balaclava.

Ghost merely grunted, a sound that could have meant anything, but his hand came up, a large, gloved thumb brushing lightly over Soap’s cheek before he stepped back. “Don’t burn the house down,” he said, his voice flat but with an underlying current of fondness.

With a final wave from Soap, König and Ghost stepped out into the bright morning sun, leaving the domestic tranquility of the house behind, ready for their remarkably ordinary, yet utterly extraordinary, grocery run.

The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine. Ghost led the way, a silent, imposing figure, his steps even and unhurried. König fell into step beside him, his taller frame moving with a long-practiced quiet.

He took a moment to truly 𝘴𝘦𝘦 the world around them. The house they’d just left was nestled on a quiet street, surrounded by others much like it, each with its own patch of meticulously kept lawn. Trees, still mostly bare save for the stubborn evergreens, lined the sidewalks, casting long, slender shadows ahead of them. The sky was a brilliant, unblemished blue, a stark contrast to the often-grey skies of his homeland. It was a picturesque scene, utterly ordinary, and yet, for König, profoundly new. Every detail, from the cheerful red mailbox on the corner to the distant hum of traffic, felt sharper, more vibrant than anything he had experienced before.

He was lost in this quiet observation when a sudden, unexpected warmth bloomed in his left hand. His arm stiffened instantly, every muscle coiling, his mind flashing through a thousand defensive scenarios. His right hand twitched, years of training screaming for him to grab whatever threat had dared to approach. But before he could react, to lash out with the force that was so ingrained, his mind registered the familiar texture—the slight roughness of a gloved palm, the solid weight, the comforting pressure. He looked down, his breath catching, to see Ghost’s large, gloved hand enveloped around his own.

Ghost didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed ahead, scanning the street with a practiced, almost bored alertness. He walked as if holding König's hand was the most natural thing in the world, a mundane part of their morning stroll, no more remarkable than the rise and fall of their footsteps. And König, after a moment of stunned silence, found himself simply… accepting it. It 𝘥𝘪𝘥 feel natural, oddly comfortable, a silent anchor in this bewildering new chapter of his life. He returned the gentle squeeze, a small, involuntary smile playing on his lips beneath the hood. The comfortable silence stretched between them, now infused with a new, quiet intimacy.

They walked for a few more blocks, the suburbs slowly giving way to a busier commercial area. As they approached the main street, lined with small shops and a scattering of pedestrians, König began to feel the familiar prickle of unease. He felt eyes on him—the casual glances, the lingering stares that always seemed to follow his towering height, the dark silhouette of his hooded figure. He instinctively pulled the fabric of his hood tighter, trying to shrink himself, to become less conspicuous, despite the futility of the gesture. His mind began to race, the self-consciousness blooming into a tight knot in his stomach.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳.

The world around him started to blur at the edges, the sounds of traffic and conversation becoming a muffled roar. He felt a familiar cold dread creeping in, threatening to overwhelm the fragile peace he’d found.

Just as the spiraling thoughts threatened to drag him fully under, Ghost’s thumb brushed reassuringly over the back of his hand. His voice, a low, steady rumble, cut through the noise in König’s head, grounding him instantly. "Anton."

König’s head snapped towards him, his eyes wide and unfocused.

"Don't," Ghost said, his voice firm but gentle, his eyes, even through the mask, conveying a deep understanding. "Don't look at them. Don't worry ‘bout them." He gave König's hand another gentle squeeze. "Look at me. Focus on me."

König did. He fixed his gaze on Ghost’s masked profile, on the steady line of his jaw, the slight crinkle around his eyes that hinted at a hidden expression. The world, which had been threatening to spin out of control, slowly began to re-solidify. The stares didn't vanish, but they receded, becoming background noise, mere shadows against the solid presence beside him. He took a deep, shaky breath, the panic slowly receding, replaced by a quiet sense of relief and gratitude. He squeezed Ghost’s hand again, a silent thank you that Ghost seemed to understand perfectly.

Soon, they arrived at the grocery store, a sprawling building with automatic doors that slid open with a whoosh. Inside, the air hummed with the fluorescent lights and the low thrum of refrigeration units. Ghost pulled a crumpled list from his pocket, handing it to König. "You read, I push."

And so, they moved through the aisles, a surprisingly efficient duo. König, still feeling a little flustered but significantly calmer, diligently read out items from the list, his German-accented English clear and precise. Ghost, meanwhile, navigated the cart with an almost military precision, his tall frame weaving through other shoppers with practiced ease. There was a comfortable rhythm to their movements, a silent understanding. König would point to a specific brand of coffee, and Ghost would reach for it without hesitation. Ghost would pause by the produce, waiting for König to confirm the ripeness of an avocado with a gentle squeeze. They worked together seamlessly, gathering a medley of fresh produce, pantry staples, and, of course, a very specific brand of sour gummy worms that Ghost had reluctantly added to the list for Soap.

At the checkout, they chose a lane with a young, cheerful cashier. She greeted them with a bright smile, chatting pleasantly as she scanned their items. She seemed particularly taken by König's height, offering a good-natured comment about needing to get a ladder to reach the top shelves. König, still somewhat unaccustomed to such casual friendliness, offered a shy, rumbling laugh, the sound surprisingly deep. He managed a short, polite exchange, feeling a spark of warmth at her uncomplicated kindness. He didn't notice the subtle shift in Ghost's posture, the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, or the slight narrowing of his eyes as the cashier continued her lighthearted banter, her gaze lingering on König for a fraction too long.

They bagged their groceries and thanked the cashier. As they walked out, the automatic doors sliding shut behind them, Ghost suddenly stopped. König, mid-reach for his phone to check the time, bumped into Ghost’s broad back. He looked up, confused, about to ask what was wrong, when Ghost, without a word, leaned down.

His masked face was close, his eyes, dark and intense, meeting König’s. Then, a soft press of lips against his own. It was quick, a brief, almost possessive claim, entirely different from the earlier kiss with Soap. There was no searching, no lingering, just a firm, undeniable contact.

König pulled back, his mind reeling. He touched his lips, bewildered. "…What was that for?" he asked, his voice a low rumble of confusion.

Ghost, already turning, began to walk again, his stride long and unhurried as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "Let’s get moving," he grunted, his voice flat. "Food will get warm if we stand ere’ gawking."

König opened his mouth to press for an answer, but Ghost’s words, though dismissive, held an undeniable logic. He was still utterly perplexed, a warm blush creeping up his neck, but he pushed the questions aside for now and hurried to catch up, the heavy grocery bags swinging awkwardly in his hands. He supposed the answer would come, eventually. Or perhaps, like so many things with Ghost, it would remain unspoken, a silent understanding.

They walked in slightly less comfortable silence this time, König’s mind replaying the unexpected kiss, before the familiar sight of their street came into view. As they approached the house, the faint thrum of music became audible. Soon, the rhythmic beat of a pop song could be heard clearly, emanating from within. The front door was slightly ajar.

Pushing it open, they were greeted by the sight of Soap, bopping his head enthusiastically to the music while wiping down the kitchen counters with a methodical fervor. He had a pair of ear-buds in, singing along off-key, completely engrossed in his task. He didn't notice them until Ghost cleared his throat.

Soap jumped, nearly dropping his sponge, and whipped around, his face instantly breaking into a wide, relieved grin. He pulled out his earbuds. "Thank God you guys are back! It was so boring without you two!" He rushed over, abandoning his cleaning supplies. "Did you get the gummy worms, Si? An’ wha’ bout’ those fancy cheeses for Anton?"

König couldn't help but smile, the lingering confusion from the grocery store giving way to the familiar, comforting warmth that Soap always brought. "We missed you too, Johnny," he said, his voice soft.

Ghost, with a barely perceptible sigh, added, "Regrettably, yes, we got the artery-clogging confectionery." He didn’t say he missed Soap, but the way his shoulders relaxed, the almost imperceptible tilt of his head as he looked at the younger man, spoke volumes.

Together, they efficiently put away the groceries, the kitchen now filled with the cheerful clutter of unpacking. Fresh produce was rinsed and stored, dry goods organized into the pantry, and the sour gummy worms were, to Soap’s immense delight, placed prominently on the counter.

As they finished, Soap checked the time on his phone. "Right, Anton, you should probably get goin’. It’s almost three, and you don’t want to be late picking up your brother from the airport." He turned to Ghost. "Me an’ Si can get started on dinner. How ‘bout tha’ pasta dish you like, big man?"

König felt a pang of disappointment. He hadn’t realized how quickly the time had flown, how much he had grown accustomed to this strange, wonderful domesticity. He didn't want to leave, not yet, but he knew his brother was expecting him. "Alright," he said, a quiet sigh escaping him. "Just… text me when dinner is ready, ja?." He went to retrieve his few belongings, then returned to the kitchen. He gave Soap a quick, firm hug, a quiet moment of warmth. "See you soon, Johnny."

"You too, Anton! Be safe!" Soap chirped, already turning to pester Ghost about the pasta recipe.

König looked at Ghost, who merely gave a curt nod. "Safe travels," Ghost rumbled, his voice low.

With a final, lingering look at the comfortable, sunlit kitchen—at Soap excitedly gesturing with a wooden spoon and Ghost, despite his stoic posture, listening intently—König turned and walked out the door, the hum of the house fading behind him. He stepped into the cab he hailed, and began his short journey to the airport.

The cab ride to the airport, which should have been simple and easy, was a study in sensory overload. König pressed his large frame against the cool glass of the window, trying to shrink into himself. Every pedestrian on the sidewalk, every passenger in a passing car, felt like a set of eyes trained directly on him.

His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a stark contrast to the steady, anchoring warmth of Ghost’s hand that had, just an hour ago, felt so natural. He focused on that memory, on the unyielding strength of that gloved grip, using it as a mental shield against the crawling feeling of being observed. He recited the grocery list in his head—oats, coffee, avocados, sour gummy worms—a mundane mantra to drown out the noise of the city.

The airport was worse. A cavernous space echoing with a thousand overlapping conversations, the tinny drone of announcements, and the relentless shuffle of feet. The fluorescent lights were harsher than the ones in the store, bleaching the color from everything and everyone. König kept his hood pulled low, his gaze fixed on the floor a few feet ahead, navigating the human current like a submarine running silent and deep. He found the correct baggage carousel for the incoming flight from Vienna, stationing himself against a pillar far from the crowd, a silent statue of anxious tension.

Then, he saw him.

Matthias walked off the plane with the weary slump of a long-haul traveler, his familiar duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He was taller than König remembered, more filled out. College had been good to him. But as his brother drew closer, a cold, formless dread began to pool in König’s stomach. Something was… off. The way he moved was almost too fluid, his smile a fraction too wide, not quite reaching his eyes which seemed oddly vacant. It was his brother, undeniably, but it was like looking at a high-resolution photograph where one tiny detail had been digitally altered, creating a pervasive, unsettling wrongness.

Then, a sudden, jarring crackle erupted in König’s head, like a faulty radio transmission. It was a voice, distorted and metallic, but undeniably 𝗦𝗼𝗮𝗽’𝘀.

“𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨, 𝘩𝘦𝘺, 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘨𝘶𝘺… 𝘐 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶…𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺…” The words were fragmented, tinged with a profound sadness, fading as quickly as they appeared, leaving an unsettling echo.

König stumbled, a jolt of confusion and unease shooting through him. He pressed a hand to his temple, his brows furrowed.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵? He stared wildly around the bustling terminal, but no one was looking at him. No one had heard it but him. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴-𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, he told himself, his mind beginning to spiral. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

But the echo of that sorrowful apology clung to him, a ghostly whisper in the shell of his ear.

“Anton! Over here!”

Matthias’s voice cut through his panicked thoughts. It sounded normal. It sounded like his brother. The smile was genuine now, crinkling the corners of his eyes. König forced his own lips into a smile, pushing the bizarre experience down into a dark corner of his mind. He met his brother halfway, pulling him into a brief, back-slapping hug.
“Look at you,” König rumbled, his voice still a little unsteady. “University life agrees with you. You’ve gotten big.”

Matthias laughed, a bright, easy sound that seemed to push the lingering unease further away. “Says the man who looks like he could bench-press a small car. How have you been? Really?”

They collected Matthias’s other luggage and began making their way out of the terminal, falling into the familiar rhythm of sibling conversation. König asked about classes, about friends, about life away from home.

“It’s good, really good,” Matthias said, his enthusiasm feeling genuine. “Actually, uh, there’s this girl in my poli-sci seminar…”

König nudged him with an elbow, a real smile finally breaking through his anxiety. “Oh? Do tell. Is she the reason for the new jacket?”

The easy teasing carried them out of the airport and into the waiting cab. The relative quiet of the car was a relief. König watched the city blur past, the earlier panic receding, soothed by his brother’s familiar presence. The strange voice, the odd feeling about Matthias—it was all surely in his head. He was just adjusting. That was all.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶. 𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺’𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘚𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

König jerked in his seat as if electrocuted. This voice was different—flatter, laced with a familiar, dry sarcasm that was uniquely Horangi’s. It was just as distorted, just as fleeting, a burst of static in his mind that vanished before he could even process it. His head whipped around, searching the passing cars, the sidewalk, for any sign of the Korean operative. Nothing. His nerves, which had just begun to settle, were now screaming.

“Anton?” Matthias asked, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

König forced himself to relax his white-knuckled grip on the seat. “Ja, yes. Fine. Just… spacing out. Tired.” He offered a weak smile, hoping it was convincing.

Matthias hesitated, studying him for a moment longer before nodding slowly. “Okay… Just checking.”

They spent the rest of the short drive in a silence that was no longer comfortable for König. His mind was racing, trying and failing to rationalize the impossible. By the time the cab pulled up to his modest house, a low-grade panic had settled deep into his bones.

The unease spiked again as they walked up the path. Seeing his own home felt strange, as if he were an imposter returning to a stage set. But then the front door opened before they could reach for the key.
Soap stood there, his face lit up with a brilliant, welcoming smile that seemed to banish the shadows from the porch.

“They’re ere’!” he called over his shoulder. He looked directly at König, his blue eyes crinkling. “How was the airport? A nightmare, I bet.”

Behind him, Ghost leaned against the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His posture was the picture of domestic relaxation, a stark contrast to the hyper-vigilant soldier from the grocery store. He gave a slow, acknowledging nod to the brothers.

The wave of warmth and sheer 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 that washed over König was overpowering. The love he felt for these two men, the profound sense of belonging he found in their chaotic, quiet company, was a tangible force. It was enough, finally, to silence the whispers of dread. The wrongness he felt about his brother, the distorted voices—they were phantoms, surely just symptoms of his own overwhelmed psyche. This, here and now, with Soap’s beaming face and Ghost’s silent, steady presence in his hallway, was real. This was his life now.

He ushered Matthias inside, allowing the familiar scent of home and the promised aroma of Ghost’s cooking to envelop him, consciously choosing to embrace the warmth and ignore the cold finger of unease tracing its way down his spine. For now, it was enough.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The warm, savory scent of roasted chicken and herbs filled the small dining room, a stark contrast to the cold dread solidifying in König’s gut. He sat at the head of the table, a king presiding over a court of beautiful lies. To his right, Matthias, animated and bright-eyed, was regaling Soap with a story from his first week at university.

“—and the lecturer, this old shit who looked like he’d personally argued with Socrates, just stared at me and said, ‘Mr. Ebnar, while your interpretation is creatively unburdened by the text, it is, nonetheless, wrong.’”

Soap barked a laugh, a rich, genuine sound that usually made König’s chest feel tight with affection. Now, it felt like a shard of glass working its way into his heart. “Aye, I ken the type. Ghost ere’s got the same bedside manner. Told me my field dressing technique was ‘an affront to medical science’ the first time we met.”

From his post leaning against the doorframe, a silent, looming guardian of domesticity, Ghost gave a low, acknowledging grunt. The Skull mask was gone, replaced by a simple black balaclava rolled up to his nose, allowing him to eat. He met König’s gaze for a fleeting second, and the warmth there was a physical blow.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

The thought was ice water, sudden and shocking in its clarity. König looked down at his plate, his appetite vanishing. He pushed a piece of chicken around with his fork, the mundane clink of metal on ceramic deafening in his ears.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳.

He watched Matthias laugh, the sound so real, so alive. He memorized the way his brother’s face crinkled at the corners of his eyes, the slight gap between his front teeth. But the memory he was comparing it to was a faded, grief-bleached photograph from an old highschool year book. Matthias at fourteen, forever frozen in adolescent awkwardness. He shouldn’t know what his brother looked like at twenty. He’d never had the chance to see it.

𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥.

The thought was a sledgehammer. It brought with it another, more terrible memory: his mother’s voice on the phone, just this morning. Cheerful, telling him about her upcoming cruise.

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. The cozy room began to feel like a shrink-wrap vacuum, squeezing the air from his lungs. Soap and Ghost thought he was dead. He’d sacrificed himself for them. They’d mourned him. Ghost’s stoicism would have turned to stone; Soap’s vibrant energy would have curdled into a hard, bitter rage. They’d hated him for his betrayal, and then they’d been forced to grieve him. This… this placid domesticity was an obscenity.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴, 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩.

The conversation at the table swirled around him, but the words had lost all meaning, becoming a meaningless drone of sound. He was drowning in the perfection of it, and it was the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced.

𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘍𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘷𝘦’ 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱.

The voice slammed into his mind, a distorted crackle of pure agony. It was Soap’s voice, but stripped of all its warmth, laced with a desperation so profound it felt like a physical wound. It was a voice begging from the edge of a cliff.

König’s fork clattered loudly onto his plate. Three sets of eyes turned to him. “You alright, big guy?” Soap asked, his real-world voice a horrifying counterpoint to the spectral plea still echoing in König’s skull. His jade eyes were soft with concern.

“Ja, fine,” König choked out, his own voice sounding alien. “Just… slipped.” He forced a smile, but his mind was fracturing.

𝘞𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱? 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵?

And then it came. Not a memory, but a sensation—a white-hot brand of pure pain lancing across his ribs. The phantom scent of ozone and copper filled his nose. The cozy dining room flickered, like a bad film reel.

For a single, horrifying second, he wasn’t at the table.

He was in a concrete room, cold and damp. His wrists were raw and bleeding in heavy chains bolted to the ceiling. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth. A figure stepped into his limited view—Mace, his skull makes a cold dread promising suffering.

“Let’s see who you really are.” The taser slammed into his side again, and König’s world dissolved into a symphony of screaming nerves and electricity.

He gasped, jerking back into his chair. The dining room was stable again. Soap was looking at him, a faint line of concern between his brows. Ghost had straightened up, his posture subtly shifting from relaxed to assessing.

𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵.

His father wasn’t a kind man who took his mother on trips; he was a cruel-eyed man whose love was measured in backhanded compliments and the sting of his belt. Soap and Ghost were together, a unit, a pair… 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 him. This wasn’t real. It was a beautiful, intricate, incredibly detailed cage.

The realization was a sucker punch to König’s soul. This was a fantasy. A construct.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭, a new voice whispered, silken and persuasive. It was his own voice, but slick with a sinister temptation. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰. 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

The pull was immense, a riptide of longing. He looked at Soap’s worried face, at Ghost’s steady presence, at his brother, alive and whole. He could almost feel his resolve crumbling. It would be so easy. To just… accept it. To deserve this.

𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶.

This voice was different. It was Horangi’s. But it wasn’t the flat, joking tone from the cab. This was stripped raw, frayed with exhaustion and a fear König had never heard in the unmovable Korean before.

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥. 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘴. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦.

The raw, desperate plea from a man who never begged cut through the seductive lie like a scalpel. Horangi was waiting. The real world, with all its pain and guilt and consequences, was waiting. It was real. And König, the betrayer, the failure, the man who got his little brother killed, did not deserve an easy out. He didn’t get to hide in a happy fiction while his 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 team—the one he’d failed, the one that had, against all odds, come for him—was waiting.

The choice was agony.

He looked one last time at the dinner table. He memorized the way the light caught Soap’s hair, the quiet contentment in Ghost’s posture, the vibrant life in his brother’s eyes. He poured every ounce of his love and longing into that look, a final, silent goodbye to a paradise he could never have.

He let it go.

One second he was there, at the table, a ghost at his own feast.

The next, the world dissolved into a nauseating swirl of light and sound, and then—

—nothing but pain.

A dull, all-over throbbing that was a symphony of bruises and burns. The smell was antiseptic, stark and clean, undercut by the faint, metallic tang of blood. The air was cool on his face. He was lying on something hard, thinly padded.

He forced his eyes open.

The light was dim, but it still made his head pound. He was in a sterile, white room. Medical monitors beeped with a steady, monotonous rhythm nearby. His body felt leaden, unresponsive. He tried to move his fingers, and a sharp, fiery protest shot up his arm from his heavily bandaged wrist.

In a chair next to the bed, slumped over in an uncomfortable-looking position, was Horangi. He was still in his tactical gear, though his helmet was off. His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped with an exhaustion that went deeper than bone. One of his hands was resting on the edge of the mattress, inches from König’s own.

König’s vision blurred, tears of pain and grief and a terrible, resigned clarity welling in his eyes. He focused on Horangi’s hand, on the real, solid presence of his friend. The beeping of the heart monitor began to quicken its pace.

In the chair, Horangi stirred, his head lifting slowly. His eyes, dark with fatigue and worry, landed on König’s face. They widened.

And in the quiet, sterile room, König’s eyes stared back.